


Stray or The Relative Merits of Leaving Your Window Open in Times of Acute National Crisis

by BubbleBakerPenguinPie



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Baking, Betrayal, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky Barnes Remembers, Canon-Typical Violence, Caretaking, F/M, Flashbacks, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Hallucinations, Loss of Limbs, Near Death Experiences, Nightmares, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, Post-TWS, Recovery, Red Army, Self-Harm, Slow Build, Steve Rogers & Sam Wilson Friendship, Steve Rogers Feels, Stress Baking, Surgery, Swearing, Up all night to get Bucky, WW2
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-06
Updated: 2016-08-07
Packaged: 2018-03-05 04:11:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 37
Words: 122,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3105182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BubbleBakerPenguinPie/pseuds/BubbleBakerPenguinPie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You live an ordinary, fairly boring, somewhat lonely life working for a branch of Stark Industries in Washington DC. The closest you ever got to superheroes and conspiracy theories was your best friend since childhood, Skye. But all this was set to change when a gaggle of masked men fall through your window the day the Helicarriers went down. Luckily for one of them, you have a propensity for taking in strays.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. From the Skies

You’d always known that your death would be caused by you being sarcastic at the wrong time, to the wrong people; that or harboring a fugitive. Only you had expected that fugitive to be your oldest friend Skye. As it was, you hadn’t heard from Skye in ages, not since she’d shot you a vaguely cryptic message about ‘going in deep or going straight, only time would tell’. Actually you could really use a friend right now, and you cursed yourself for not keeping in touch with the few you had since moving to DC.

But let’s recap: with all the crazy stuff going on in the city and nobody quite knowing how to react you had been held up at work, then stuck in traffic on the way home so that it was already quite dark when you arrived at your apartment.

You took a quick shower, exchanging your sweaty day clothes for comfy sweatpants and one of your old baseball jerseys from your Little League days. You were standing in your kitchen, debating what to have for dinner, when you heard gunshots outside and froze. Suddenly, a figure clad literally head to toe in black combat gear came flying in through the window in the adjoining living room, which you had opened to let out the stuffiness of the day. They had knocked over one of the chairs at your dining table and gone crashing into the red sofa, and now they weren’t moving. You grabbed the nearest object to arm yourself with instinctively (though objectively it might have been the smarter choice to opt for one of the sharp kitchen knives instead of the solid blue frying pan, but whatever). In any case you carefully approached the figure, pan raised and ready to strike. You weren’t exactly happy about mysterious, dangerous-looking strangers breathing their last on your carpet, not with the confusing shit going on downtown; actually not ever. You were quite content with your dull, everyday life that had no more than the absolute minimum amount of unpredictability. You didn’t need to be dragged into this mess of terrorism, shady government agencies and superheroes. This mystery person would be alive, you decided, and you would politely yet determinedly show them the door and send them on their merry, murderous way.

They stirred just as you bent over them to check for a pulse. Before either of you could react you were knocked off your feet by another body forcefully slamming into you. You tumbled all the way into the hall, losing grip of your frying pan and only narrowly missing the edge of the coffee table. It took you a moment to regain your wits; the bullets suddenly whirring through the room helped with that as they made your adrenaline levels soar. There were two more people in the room with you now, men judging by height and build, both clad in black combat gear. One of them was masked like the one who had come flying in first; the other had almost shoulder-length dark hair and an arm that seemed to be made out of metal. The first mask had by now picked himself off the floor and fired a few shots right into Metal Arm’s back. Miraculously he didn’t go down, indeed the assault only seemed to drive him on as he held his own against his two opponents. He took down one of the masked assailants with a sweeping knife cut to the thigh and a ringing left hook, then swirled around to kick the legs out from under the second one. He then turned back to the man he had just sent crashing down, grabbing him by the throat and preparing to throw him out your open window. You noticed that his movements were shakier now than just a moment earlier; the bullets he’d caught and goodness knew which other injuries taking their toll after all. Meanwhile the other goon had risen again, obviously planning to take advantage of the fact that Metal Arm had his back turned to him. You moved before your brain made the conscious decision to do so, grabbing a firm hold of your frying pan and whacking the guy over the head as hard as you could. He crumpled like a ragdoll and you thought you heard a somewhat sickening crunch, though that might have also been the body of the other masked man hitting the pavement outside, four stories down. Metal Arm whirled around to face you, panting loudly and fixing you in a piercing, cold gaze. You raised your trusty pan anxiously.  
“So, that was exciting and all, but please leave now and take your pal here with you.” You heard yourself say, and instantly cursed your loose tongue. Sassing knife-wielding fighting machines probably didn’t rate very high on the list of life-prolonging behaviors. This was how you would die. Grand. Just wonderful. Write ‘Shut up – live longer’ on my tombstone as friendly advice.

The stranger took a dragging step towards you, and you readied yourself to take another well-aimed swing, judging that you might be able to take him down long enough to run for the door. Suddenly he let out a low, pained groan and keeled over, crashing into the edge of the couch on his way down. ‘Well, shit,’ you thought as you stood there, momentarily dumbfounded. How does one deal with a situation like this? You couldn’t just leave him lying there, that much was clear. One way or another you would have to make up your mind.

“I’m calling an ambulance.” You thought aloud.

“No!” he hissed, flinching in pain. Suddenly emboldened by being the only one left standing upright in the room, you straightened your back and walked over to your phone.

“Listen, champ,” you said, trying to put some authority into your voice, “You’re not bleeding out on my carpet. I’m calling an ambulance. Try and stop me.”

He glared at you as you dialed and stated your emergency to the responder, surprisingly calm considering what had just happened. He tried to get back up on his feet, but failed and fell down with a thud and what you were fairly sure was a whimper. Nevertheless he managed to maintain his glare, which was somewhat counteracted by him cradling his right arm to his chest protectively, even as you moved across the room to close the window, lest any more masked gunslingers rain in.

“You don’t understand,” the man ground out hoarsely between labored breaths, “I can’t go to a hospital. They’ll find me!”

An expression of naked terror flickered across his face. You couldn’t help but feel a pang of pity for him. For the first time you approached him, though you were careful to stay out of arm’s reach, and squatted down, a sympathetic smile on your face.

“Listen, champ, you’re badly injured. You’re gonna die without medical attention, and that is just not happening, not here and not tonight.” He gave you a dubious look that suggested that this option would be preferable to him than them getting him, whoever ‘they’ were. You guessed that the two masked gunmen had been part of that elusive ‘they’, so arguably they already had found him. You sighed inwardly as you made up your mind to help this stranger.

“I’ll make you a deal: I’ll tell the authorities some made up story, pretend you’re my cousin or something, we get you to the hospital, you get patched up, no one is any the wiser and once that’s done we both go our merry, separate ways and never see each other again.” His expression grew even more dubious and unwilling at your suggestion. Outside the sirens of the approaching ambulance were blaring, their volume increasing steadily as they drew closer. You could tell he was weighing his options, limited as they were, trying to decide whether or not to trust you.

“Okay.” He eventually replied, resigning himself to whatever might come next. 

“Just leave the talking to me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of all the windows in the greater DC area...


	2. Hospital Beds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greetings dear audience! Thank you for your kind words, the kudos and subscriptions, they are much appreciated and by appreciated I mean they make me squeal with joy. Furthermore, I have decided that there will be weekly updates on this fic, every tuesday to be exact (in honour of it being Agent Carter day). I already have several chapters saved as drafts, but I hope that this will give me the time to stay ahead and not let this story fall into a hiatus because I ran into writer's block halfway through. That is all for now. Enjoy! Until next tuesday^^

Arriving at the hospital, you were immediately reminded why you loathed hospitals. But you pulled yourself together, played your part with doctors and nurses and police, and filled in the forms with fake data as your mystery man was wheeled into an operating theater. His wounds had been worse than you’d anticipated, causing him to pass out on the way as you’d held his hand in a show of familial distress. Luckily, with the general chaos that day, no one had had the time to ask you too many questions. There were emergencies all over the city as people panicked and virtually no one knew what was actually going on.

You sat in the waiting room, sipping watery coffee and watching the clueless news people scramble for something to tell their viewers. You didn’t envy them their jobs right now; it was all just so damn confusing. Endless footage replaying how those Helicarriers crashed into the Potomac (you had seen them on your drive home, though from much farther away) while reporters and supposed experts tried to make sense of the situation. It seemed that SHIELD was down, and that Captain America was somehow involved. There was talk of terrorism, of course, and the wildest theories were being tossed around …you were honestly too tired to care at this point, you were just using the TV not to fall asleep.  
It was way past midnight when a kindly doctor approached you to update you on ‘Cousin Will’s’ condition. His injuries were many and dire: a broken arm, five fractured ribs, a pierced and collapsed lung, they’d had to dig a full eight bullets out of him and also there had been extensive internal bleeding; the countless cuts and bruises he’d sustained on top of that almost paled in comparison. You gulped heavily as the doctor told you that there was a good chance he’d make it, but his condition was critical and they’d have to keep him for the time being. Eventually she showed you to the room they’d put him in and you didn’t have to act anymore; your stomach churned all on its own at the sight of all those tubes sticking out of him. You really, really hated hospitals.

Then again you were too exhausted to go back home, and you felt somehow responsible for the man who had all but fallen at your feet, and you were loath to abandon him here when he had been so obviously terrified of going. And besides, you’d given him your word and it was not as if there was much of the night left anyway. You left a message at work, calling in sick for the day, and another for Skye in the fading hope that she’d return your call, then dragged a spare comfy seat into the room while no one was looking and curled up in it. You fell asleep instantly.

You woke up a few hours later when a nurse came in during her morning round. She told you that ‘Cousin Will’ was not likely to wake up before the evening, or indeed at all this day, and if he did she’d make sure you were informed at once. She suggested you go home, freshen up and get some actual rest, which you found to be an excellent idea. At least your apartment had some real coffee, and also you were positively famished by now. You waited until the nurse left and approached the bed hesitantly.

“So, um… I’m gonna be back later today to check on you. Please don’t wake up and if you do please don’t throw a fit or something and try to kill someone or anything like that.”

Unsurprisingly there was no response (how could he, in an artificial coma and with a tube down his throat?) and you turned to leave, before one more thought made you return to your mystery man’s bedside. “I promise you that you are safe here. Hang in there, champ.” You reached for his hand to squeeze it reassuringly, but thought better of it and left.  
Out in the hallway, you dragged your tired feet along as fast as you could. Your reflexes weren’t the best at the moment, and you hadn’t really been paying that much attention to where you were going, and so you collided with someone rounding a corner at moderate speed and the impact sent you sprawling to the floor.

“I’m sorry Miss, are you okay?” a warm voice said, sounding genuinely concerned. You looked up into a handsome face with a warm apologetic smile. You noticed that he had a cute little gap between his front teeth as he offered you his hand to help you up. You mumbled something along the line of ‘thanks’ and ‘don’t worry I’m fine’ before shuffling on towards the exit.

“Hey, wait!” you heard his voice behind you, followed by a few quick steps. “You lost your bag.” He smiled kindly as he held it out to you.

“Oh, thank you…”

“Sam.”

“Thank you Sam, I’m ________ and I really gotta go, no offense.”

“None taken.” He replied, all charm. “Have a nice day.”

“You too, Sam.” You mumbled.

 

Once home, you couldn’t help but collapse on your bed. At least you had the presence of mind to set your alarm so that you wouldn’t sleep through the entire day. Having done that your eyes fell shut and you rapidly drifted off into a deep, dreamless slumber.

You woke again but ten minutes shy of your set time from the sound of your own stomach growling. Groggily you sat up, stretched your tense back and shuffled into the kitchen to heat up some leftovers. You surveyed the damage done to your living room as you ate. There were a few bullet holes in the walls, but miraculously your furniture had survived the ordeal unscathed, and so had you, for that matter. The same could not be said for the carpet. You frowned down upon the congealed and dried blood in the fabric, making a mental note to pick up some special carpet cleaner on your next trip to the shops. Leaving the rest as it was, you put your dishes in the sink and went to take a shower. The warm water helped you relax your tense shoulders as you pondered over everything that had happened to you that past night. You thought of your mystery man and his haunted eyes and how drained and broken he had looked in that hospital bed, all bruises and bandages and tubes and beeping machines. You thought of Sam and his radiant smile and wondered who he’d been at the hospital for and hoped that it was something good. You thought of Skye who didn’t return your calls and prayed that she hadn’t gotten herself into trouble, not when you weren’t there to help her out of it like when you were kids.

You were just debating staying in the shower for another indulgent five minutes when you heard a pitiful mewling outside. Your cat! Well, not technically your cat so much as a stray you had sort of semi-adopted, meaning she’d stop by every few days for a meal and some petting.

“You’ll not believe what happened to me.” You said to the wily ginger cat after you’d let her in through the kitchen window. Damn, you really needed someone to talk to, someone who was physically capable of answering preferably. You gave the cat some food and willed Skye to not be dead or detained somewhere.

After drying off and putting on some more appropriate clothes than the sweatpants and old shirt you’d worn before, you grabbed your keys and purse and made for the garage. Traffic was as relaxed today as it had been thick the day before, and you arrived at the hospital in the late afternoon. Your mystery man was still out of it, both to your relief and slightly annoyed impatience. You wanted some answers, and you wanted to get out of this whole mess as soon as possible.

“I’m back, so if you wanna wake up and tell me who you are and what that stunt last night was all about, be my honored guest.” You spoke into the relative silence of the room, receiving no answer but the steady beeping of the heart monitor. You sighed. Just what had you gotten yourself into here?

You stayed for a little more than two hours, briefly chatting with the nurse when she made her round and willing him to wake up and release you from this charade. It didn’t happen, of course. You eventually said your good-byes and good nights to his still form, half joking that you would come back every day to annoy him until he told you what you wanted to know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sam Wilson *heart eyes*  
> Sam is my darling son; I love him. So, so much.


	3. Team Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since there is no new Agent Carter episode tonight (a fact about which I am devastated) you all have more time to read and I'll post a second chapter later today. Hurray!

You made it your habit to check in on your supposed cousin every day after work. You also saw Sam again a few times, and you even chatted a bit over some coffee. You liked Sam, you decided. He was witty and charming in an unassuming way and practically exuded trustworthiness. If the two of you became friends than at least something worthwhile would have come out of this whole bizarre situation.

Mystery man’s condition remained stable, and the kindly doctor said that he was doing extremely well considering the gravity of his injuries, yet he showed no signs of waking, even though they’d already pulled the tube from his throat and moved him from the ICU.

It had been four days now. You were solving a crossword puzzle, or trying to, when you heard a low groan. You stepped to his bedside hesitantly, not sure what to expect. He stirred uneasily for a few minutes before finally opening his eyes. His gaze fell on you instantly, and you weren’t at all prepared for its blue intensity.

“Hey Sleeping Beauty, welcome back to the land of the living.” You quipped, attempting to conceal your nerves. There was a moment of silence before he reacted.

“You…” he ground out hoarsely, looking puzzled for a moment, like he was trying to grasp how he knew you.

“Me.” You affirmed unhelpfully.

“Pan…” he mused uncertainly, sifting through his memory, which was no doubt aggravatingly difficult at the moment due to the amount of painkillers in his bloodstream.

“Yeah …well actually my name is ________.”

He just stared at you in silence.

“This is usually the point when you tell me your name.” you offered awkwardly. His face went blank at that. Other than that, there was no response.

“Okay, let’s take it step by tiny step then.” You tried to keep the exasperation from your voice, but you weren’t entirely successful.

“Why are you here?” he demanded gruffly, wincing as a slight movement tugged at his battered body in obviously painful ways.

“I didn’t want you to be alone when you woke up.” You admitted, suddenly inexplicably embarrassed. Your statement visibly confused him. You could virtually see the wheels turning and churning in his head, refusing to click into place. Well, this way at least you were both utterly befuddled and out of your depths here.

“I should …probably tell the doctor you’ve woken up.” You mumbled hastily and all but ran out of the room.

The Winter Soldier’s eyes followed your hastily retreating form as he tried to somehow pierce through the haziness in his mind and make sense of his situation. It was difficult; his thoughts were at once racing and sluggish, images and sounds whirling through his skull fleetingly while he grasped for them, unable to make meaningful connections between them. He thought he remembered you taking down one of the HYDRA agents who had pursued him, but the image was blurry. He could tell he was injured from how he felt like he’d been run over by a tank, and he could also tell that he was being cared for here. Nevertheless a feeling of unease persisted, making him wary.  
He startled slightly when you suddenly poked your head back in a few moments later.

“On second thought, maybe we should get our cover story straight beforehand, if you’re up to it, that is.”

The Winter Soldier gave you a quizzical look, but nodded faintly. You slipped in and resumed your seat, dragging it a bit closer to his bed so that anyone coming in wouldn’t immediately hear what you were saying. You laid out the basics of the story you had concocted a few days prior, naming the important details to make your lies believable. He followed you with concentration.

“Okay, that’s all I think. In case of doubt, just follow my lead.”

“You have done this before.” He spoke lowly, his expression one of vague distrust. He didn’t know who you were after all, and though you didn’t seem like HYDRA and were helping him a healthy dose of suspicion didn’t seem to be out of place at this point.

You blushed a little, suddenly embarrassed. “Um yeah, I have this friend, who I hope isn’t currently spending quality time in Guantanamo Bay or something like that. She has this knack for getting into trouble, always has, and I guess I just kinda developed a knack for fibbing in response.”

Silence. This was getting slightly aggravating, you found.

“Well anyway, I’m gonna get the doctor now.”

 

The only thing more remarkable than ‘Cousin Will’s’ survival was the speed at which he recovered, the good doctor stated after checking in. She stared down at her clipboard with mild disdain before fixing you both in a suspicious gaze. You straightened your back and put on your most charming, most placating smile.

  
“We’re incredibly fast healers in our family, always have been, isn’t that right Will?” He nodded dutifully.

“Like that one time when we were kids, remember? Molly fell out of the tree house and twisted her leg…”

“Who is Molly?” the doctor interrupted. You froze. You had been making this up as you went, which is not the best way to go about these things, but normally people didn’t bother interrupting. She wasn’t supposed to interrupt you. Who does that? How rude and inopportune.

“My younger sister.” The Winter Soldier stated matter-of-factly, taking up your unwitting cue without missing a beat. “And she sprained her ankle, ______.”

“Same difference, Will. Anyway, she sprained her ankle, but it was all peachy again by the time she had her dance recital just the weekend after.” You resisted the urge to do something that might betray your story, any little reaction now could bring the whole thing crashing down. “As I said, we’re absurdly fast healers.”

The doctor narrowed her eyes at you, but eventually decided that she didn’t get paid enough to tackle this particular enigma, not with a full ward and a city still in uproar over the events surrounding SHIELD. She informed you that they could release him the day after next and whisked you away to deal with the paperwork, leaving ‘Cousin Will’ in the nurse’s capable hands.

 

You still came by every day, or the two more days your mystery man would remain in hospital. There was no use in denying it: you felt responsible for him now; you were invested. Too much so to just let go. Taking in enigmatic men who came tumbling in through your window probably didn’t rank too high on that list of life-prolonging behaviors either, especially the kind that could apparently take apart trained and armed killers with their bare hands, but then again this wasn’t the first questionable decision you’d made in your life and you had survived this far. Besides, you sensed a riddle to be unraveled here, and you’d be damned if you’d just let him walk away with all his secrets. You felt he owed you an explanation.

“So, what do I call you?” you attempted to coax his name from him, hoping the rest would somehow follow. Nothing. You sighed, his unresponsiveness seriously irritating you. “I mean, just give me a name, okay? Technically it wouldn’t even have to be your real name; I’d never know anyway, I just feel I deserve that, at least, though I would of course appreciate not being lied to.”

Your aggravated tone caught him off guard – which was strange as he hadn’t been anything if not guarded since regaining consciousness – and you saw a flash of fear glitter in his eyes for the fraction of a second. It was gone again before you could be sure and in any case you were in no mood to indulge it.

“Well?”

“I… I don’t know.” You stopped dead in your tracks, feeling your previous annoyance dissipate into thin air.

“What do you mean you don’t know?”

“I don’t remember. I have no name. I don’t know.” You saw the ghost of a thought rush over those haunted eyes, a shadow of something huge and terrifying that could not be shared, and you felt a strange tightness in your chest at it. So he was an amnesiac. That explained a few things, you supposed, though at the same time it posed a whole lot of new questions. Like how does an obviously trained fighter get amnesia that thorough? The doctors hadn’t paid more than the minimal due attention to his head since there had been no apparent injuries.

“But is there no one looking for you?” you asked, incredulous, “I mean no one but the trigger-happy gunslingers from the other night.”

He gave a choked sound, which may or may not have been supposed to be a bitter laugh. “They’re the ones who did this to me, or they work for those who did, anyway.” His voice was thick with unspoken words; you could make out the smallest quavering.

“Who are they?” You heard yourself ask. Why did you ask? You should not have asked. Then again you shouldn’t have taken him under your wings in the first place perhaps. Why did you have to be such a soft-hearted mother hen?

“Have you ever heard of HYDRA?” he spoke grimly, both hands curled into fists. Of course you had. With a friend like Skye and the current situation, how could you not. Slowly the extent of what you had gotten yourself into began to dawn on you.

“Oh boy…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes you get a second chance to make a first impression.  
> Well, not really.  
> That was mildly tasteless of me.


	4. Breathe Easy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as promised, the next chapter. enjoy^^

It was apparent that he was more than unhappy with the wheelchair. He wouldn’t even grace it with a single look as it sat there while the nurse was busy untucking the various pipes and tubes from him. You tried to keep the grin off your face as you came in and placed a bag on the bed next to him.

“What’s this?” he asked, still as suspicious as ever.

“Clothes.” You replied simply, a warning flashing in your eyes for him not to say anything strange that didn’t fit with your official story. “Thought you’d appreciate it, coz.”

He raised his eyebrows, but thankfully refrained from making any further comments until the nurse was done and gone.

“What about…”

“Your gear?” you interrupted, “Yeah, I’m afraid they kinda had to cut that off you in stripes when they were saving your life, so that’s a no. They did give me your boots though.” You fished said boots out of the bag, placing them on the floor.

“As for the rest, I just really hope this fits.” You produced a small pile of clothing items from the bag, placing them on the bed beside him. He glanced at the pile as if he’d never seen a striped shirt.

“Where did you even get these?” he asked, narrowing his bloodshot eyes at the pattern as if it had personally offended him. He looked like he hadn’t slept those past few days.

“Oh, they’re my ex’s. He cheated on me and was too ashamed to come by and pick up his stuff, and rightfully so. I’m not sure why I didn’t throw these out actually.” Except you knew exactly why: you had planned on burning them on the roof when the hurt had still been fresh, but then thought better of it and eventually forgotten.

“Actually I think he’s never even worn these.” You mused, discreetly pulling off the labels that were still attached to the fabric. Why were you even telling him all this? Were you usually this chatty and prone to oversharing or just compensating for his utter lack of conversational skills?

“Anyway, are you gonna be okay here? I gotta go and talk to the doctor again. Sign some forms. All that jazz.”

He nodded after a short moment of hesitation, and you took your leave, allowing him some privacy to get changed.

When you returned about a quarter of an hour later, you found him half dressed, struggling to pull his broken arm through the shirt’s sleeve. You thought he looked a bit paler than when you’d left him.

“Here, let me,” you said, taking the shirt out of his fumbling metal hand. He stared down at you, brows furrowed, but let you slide the shirt up his arm over the splint that had replaced the ungainly cast put on him previously without resistance. Other than that his torso was still covered in angry dark bruises and white gauze bandages. You tried not to stare at the puckered scar tissue where his left shoulder was divided in metal and flesh, but couldn’t help wondering how one sustained such dramatic injuries. That seemed to be a habit of his. The prosthetic arm caught your attention as well, and you sneaked a few discerning glances at the interlocking metal plates sneakily – out of purely professional interest of course. You worked for a company that developed medical technology such as prosthetics, and though your personal strengths were more on the business and management side of things, you still had graduated in health sciences and technology from MIT, figuring that even if you didn’t end up in research it would still be useful to know that side of the business. You briefly wondered what your head researcher Dr Laing would have to say about this – it appeared to be quite a bit more advanced than anything you could currently do. At least the clothes fit, even somewhat loosely so, and you mentally thanked your ex for not knowing how clothing sizes worked.

He swayed a bit, blood draining from his face as he tried to steady himself without leaning on you. You huffed and gently pushed him down to sit on the bed, then proceeded to button up the shirt. You briefly wondered at his detached compliance in the whole thing, but put it down to the painkillers in his bloodstream, and possibly the dizziness at being upright again after spending almost a week lying down. You then went over the same routine again with a jacket, mentioning how it was a tad chilly outside and trying to sound as if this was not an awkward and unusual situation.

He adamantly refused the wheelchair, so much so that both nurse and doctor just gave up eventually and let the two of you walk the short distance out of the hospital and to your car. By the time you arrived there he was trembling slightly. You briefly wondered whether he should not have stayed under professional care a little longer, seeing as he looked like he might collapse at any moment. You quickly threw the bag in the trunk and ushered him into the front seat, then got behind the wheel ad started the engine.

 

He cleared his throat awkwardly, just as you rounded a busy intersection.

“Just drop me off over there, at the station.”

You raised your eyebrow at him. “What the hell are you talking about?”

He shrank back into his seat, wincing slightly as he did so, and grumbling something about the deal you had proposed back when you first met.

“Don’t be ridiculous, look at the state you’re in!” you replied, a bit more testily than you’d intended, “I’m not just gonna unload you at the curb like an old microwave, that would be most irresponsible. No, champ, you’re staying with me until you’ve recovered enough to get by on your own. Unless you actually have somewhere to go, which, with the whole amnesia not-even-knowing-who-you-are thing, I’m guessing is not the case.” Who was he trying to kid? He could barely walk half a mile without passing out. You were somewhat offended at the insinuation that you would just abandon him like that. He frowned deeply, opening his mouth to say something in return, but the intention withered before it could take root.

“Besides I gotta take you back there next week for a check-up ad to get your stitches pulled.” You said, nodding your head back in the general direction of the hospital. He regarded you at length, which since you were driving you found a bit unsettling, before speaking again.

“You don’t even know who I am.” He stated, vexed and incredulous.

“Well, that makes two of us.” You replied dryly. His lips parted a fraction in disbelief, which was somehow incredibly adorable. Nevertheless you made a mental not to tone it down on the trashy amnesia jokes; it was a bit tasteless after all.

 

By the time you arrived back at your apartment building he had recovered enough to manage the paved way leading there, and inside thankfully there was an elevator to take you up to your floor.

You could tell he was exhausted, and it was already quite late in the day, so you sat him down at the dinner table and went into the kitchen to heat up some leftovers for dinner. He hadn’t said a word since the car ride, and wasn’t exactly responding now either, so you just decided on some chicken and broccoli risotto. You were famished and he probably needed to eat, too, since hospital food was notoriously bad.

You were just heaping the food on plates when you heard a chair scrape on the floor. You called out that the bathroom door was the one just next to the kitchen, and carried out the full plates.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

He flinched away from the apartment door, looking somewhat guilty. You set the steaming plates down with more force than strictly necessary, then crossed your arms and put on what Skye called your ‘disappointed mom’ stare. It seemed to work. He unhanded the door knob, but remained leaning heavily against the wall, beautifully illustrating the point you were going to make just now.

“You have been good to me, and I am grateful, but I really cannot stay.” He said quietly, interrupting the impassioned speech you were about to deliver before you could draw the breath to do so. His words sounded stiff, rehearsed; as if he had to put a lot of thought into knowing what to say yet not being quite sure those words were truly the appropriate ones.

“And why on earth not?”

“It’s too dangerous for you; I am too dangerous.” His voice was flat; there was only the slightest hint of emphasis. You found that lack of expression quite disconcerting, especially when you yourself were so upset right now.

“You mean you can take apart two or more armed opponents with your bare hands, yeah I know, I was there. Also you can barely stand and I still have my trusty frying pan, so I guess I’ll be okay.” You spat testily, waving off his objections.

He stared at you, clearly perturbed by your reaction, your apparent lack of concern. You shrugged uneasily.

“Well, I split a man’s skull with said frying pan last week, so…”

“HYDRA will not give up.” He rasped, his knees shaking and ready to buckle away from under him. He was still cowering against the heavy apartment door. Frankly you doubted he could even open it in the state he was in.

“And you wanna be out and about when they get you? Barely able to walk, riddled with bullet holes like a goddamn cheese, with a broken arm? Did you lose any sense of self-preservation along with your memory?” You hadn’t meant to yell. Really, you had not meant to yell at him; you never meant to yell at anyone, but sometimes people were so stubborn and foolish and it upset you.

There it was again, that fear you had only seen glimpses and flashes of, now prominently painted all over his face. Your stomach dropped about four hundred feet. Add ‘very likely torture of some kind’ and ‘PTSD probably, definitely some kind of trauma’ to the list of things those HYDRA people had done to this man. No wonder he didn’t wish to fall back into their clutches. You were in no way equipped to handle this, but damn you if you’d let that stop you. You took a deep, deliberate breath and put your hands out in a placating gesture, seeking forgiveness.

“I’m sorry,” you spoke firmly, putting sincerity into your voice, “I’m sorry for yelling at you. I just want you to be safe and get better, okay? I will not make you stay here against your will; I am offering it to you, and I also strongly advise it. HYDRA has not found you yet; I think if they knew where you were they’d probably have been here by now. Please sit down and eat.”

You purposely moved with slow deliberation, drawing out your chair and sitting down in it, you back turned to him. You hoped that demonstratively leaving yourself unprotected like this would inspire some kind of trust. You hoped it would work the way you meant it to, and furthermore you hoped he wouldn’t use this window of opportunity to slip out the door never to be seen again after all. It took about five agonizing minutes for him to muster the strength and courage to return to the table. His breathing was still shallow and somewhat labored as he sat down heavily across from you. You smiled encouragingly as you heaped your spoon and lifted it to your mouth. He imitated your movements hesitantly, hand shaking almost imperceptibly. You hoped the risotto hadn’t gone completely cold by now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it uh... it might take a while for him to thaw up (follow for more bad puns)  
> also how do I put a picture anywhere here? I made a floorplan for reader's apartment and I wanna put it up  
> any ideas from you people who have more tech smarts than I do?  
> or any other comments, literally anything, doesn't even have to be about the story. just tell me about your day, your favourite colour, your favourite food, the teacher you hate(d) most, anything at all.  
> anything.


	5. Settle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the feedback so far, it really means a lot to me *clutches heart* so yeah, keep it coming ;)

The Winter Soldier hadn’t slept since waking up in the hospital and he didn’t sleep that night, but sleep deprivation must take its toll on everyone, and so he eventually all but passed out just as the sun began to rise. He had abandoned your couch in favor of the floor next to it, leaving blankets and pillows undisturbed. The carpet was still much too soft for his taste, but at least it was a step up from the worn-out hospital bed.

When he awoke it was with the feeling of the Helicarrier’s metal beam crushing his bruised ribs and choking all the air out of him, yet it was not that which sent a chilling sense of dread all the way through him down into his bones, it was the fear of having failed his mission. He saw the looming figure of the man he had been supposed to kill stumble closer, no doubt meaning to finish him off. He could almost feel the strong arms snaking around his throat again, cutting off his air supply. The Winter Soldier had never failed a mission before; he had met his match in this adversary. The snapped bone in his right arm protested vehemently as he tried in vain to free himself from his trap. He didn’t want to die; he didn’t want to die; he had never been so afraid before, not even of the wrath of his handlers. The man in the blue, red and white suit came closer. The Winter Soldier hoped he’d make it quick, shoot him or snap his neck. Instead he put all his strength into lifting the metal beam off him. Why? Why, why, why, why, why? ‘You are my friend. I’m with you till…’

He came to with a start, violently sucking air into his lungs, protesting ribs notwithstanding. The change of environments could not have been more abrupt, the crashing wreck of the Helicarrier to your serene little apartment. He needed a moment to regain his bearings, groggily sitting up and burying his heated forehead in the cool unyielding metal of his left hand.

He almost didn’t see the note you’d left him on the coffee table before leaving for work.

 

_‘Good morning Starshine, the earth says hello!_

  
_You looked like you needed the rest, so I didn’t have the heart to wake you. Hope you slept well. Make yourself at home; fridge and pantry are at your disposal. Feel free to peruse the bookshelf or watch TV (I have some recorded baseball games, if you’re into that), but take it easy, okay? Doctor’s orders; don’t want you pulling your stitches or something after all. If anything is the matter, and I mean anything at all, you call me. I’m at work, but I can be back in about half an hour. I repeat, no matter what, even if you just want to know how to turn on the TV, call me. I left my number by the phone, work landline as well as mobile._   
_I’ll be back around 6pm. For dinner I was thinking pizza. Thoughts? Wishes? Cue telephone again._   
_Don’t die of boredom until then and please don’t try to run away again, we’ve been through this. I’m not above filing a missing person report, you know._

_Until later then, ________

_PS. If a red cat appears at the kitchen window please let her in and give her some food, which you can find in the cupboard right of said window.’_

 

His stomach was indeed rumbling slightly, but he had more urgent business to attend to first. Picking himself off the floor as stealthily as he could in his battered state, he took stock of your apartment first, carefully rounding each corner, acquainting himself with all possible points of exit (or entry). Only once he was reasonably satisfied that no Hydra agents would suddenly jump out of hidden corners and drag him back to the vault to be wiped did he relax the tiniest bit. He wasn’t certain of many things anymore, but the fact that he would rather die than have his memories taken from him again was one thing he was very, very sure about.

His stomach was growling audibly by now. He hesitantly opened your fridge, peering inside and seeing a frankly unholy number of Tupperware containers. You had never bothered growing un-used to cooking for two after your last relationship had gone to the dogs, instead keeping the leftovers and effectively halving the time you actually spent in the kitchen. The Winter Soldier eventually opted for the only foods he felt somewhat safely familiar with and made himself a sloppy peanut butter sandwich with an apple on the side.

You had put a new change of clothes in the bathroom for him, together with some towels, a toothbrush, your last boyfriend’s electric razor and another note. He considered it at length, mostly because he was finding it hard to focus on one thing at a time recently, then regarded himself in your bathroom mirror. He could probably do with a shave, since mere stubble had turned into a veritable beard over the course of the previous week. Then again the beard altered his appearance quite remarkably, and anything that would make it harder for Hydra to find him was a good thing as far as he was concerned. He decided to forego a shave – also because he did at present not possess the nerve to try and work out how that electric contraption worked; just brushed his teeth and splashed some cold water on his still pallid face. It was almost too much. He swayed and had to steady himself on the sink. He vaguely suspected that this had less to do with his actual injuries and more with the myriad poisons and potions Hydra had always injected him with slowly draining out of his system. In any case he felt sick and weak and dizzy and his head was swimming. He quickly yet thoroughly rinsed his mouth to counteract the bile rising up in his throat and dragged his feet back to the couch, flopping down in front of it, lightly leaning his head against the cushioned front and closing his eyes in the hope the world might stop spinning for a moment.

The man more floated than fell, oddly serene amid all the wreckage crashing down into the water around him. The Winter Soldier did not know what drove his actions at that particular moment, but the need to act as he did was immovable, unsurmountable need, like a reflex. He dived into the waters of the Potomac and dragged the blond man in the blue, red and white suit out and onto the shore.

_“Then finish it.”_

His hands were shaking, the right more so than the left, which was perhaps not so very unsurprising. His head spun violently even though he was sitting completely still, curled up as he was, on the ground where the relative placement of couch, coffee table and wall created a somewhat secluded burrow, in a manner of speaking. His stomach, with little regard for his yearning for safety, no matter how illusive, lurched suddenly, sending a wave of nausea through him down all the way into his bones. He scrambled up unwillingly, knocking the coffee table sideways a fraction, and all but crawled the short distance to the bathroom, where he spent an extensively long time getting acquainted with the smooth white porcelain while retching up bitter bile and little bits of apple. After thoroughly rinsing his mouth yet again, although the acrid sting in his throat persisted stubbornly, the Winter Soldier’s gaze fell on the clock which said 5:37.

 

You opened the door to your apartment cautiously while precariously balancing two large pizza cartons on one arm.

“Hello?” you called out uncertainly, wondering whether your inadvertent roommate was still in attendance. You were actually serious about that missing person report; you would turn on your heel and head to the nearest police station right at that very moment if need be. Fortunately, need was not and you found him sitting at the dinner table, staring into nothing. You padded over purposely, setting the cartons down on the table with a cheerful ‘Hope you’re hungry!’. You noticed that he had set the table with plates and napkins and even, bless him, knives and forks. You smiled softly to yourself, then brightly at him, hoping to elicit some kind of response out of this mysterious, unsettlingly taciturn stranger you had so willingly invited into your home. You received none, which left you unsurprised yet with latent hope for the future. Some people’s warm up phases were longer than other’s after all.

You opened the pizza cartons, chattering about how you hadn’t known what toppings he liked, so you’d just brought some margheritas because one just can’t go wrong with that. He barely responded to your idle chatter, but at least he seemed to snap out of his thousand yard stare and fixed his gaze on you. He frowned, brows knitting together in confusion as his brain assembled words.

“There was no cat.” He eventually murmured, voice soft in volume but gravelly and raw; the voice of someone who is not used to using it. You stopped mid-movement, the plate you had heaped with pizza slices hovering awkwardly in the air.

“Hmm?”

“At …the window – no cat.” He looked apprehensive, as if he expected you to get upset – again. You could feel your heart tear a little. Just what had this man been put through?

“She doesn’t come by every day, it was just in case she might, you know?” you kept your voice deliberately soft and your movements slow as you placed the plate in front of him with what you hoped was a reassuring smile. The tension seemed to seep out of his shoulders a little bit; you took it as a good sign.

“Thank you for setting the table by the way, that was thoughtful.” You took your knife and fork and started cutting off bite-sized pieces of your pizza. Usually you would have just eaten straight out of the carton while watching TV, but you didn’t want that effort to go to waste. He started eating hesitantly, waiting until you were already enthusiastically munching away on your share.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> questions, comments, opinions?


	6. Domestic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes (read: always) I wish I could see the reactions of people while they read my stories  
> but since that is impossible and also a bit creepy we're just gonna have to do with regular modes of feedback

It was no use; his mind was all over the place. His brain felt like it might burst; he would have scraped the insides of his skull raw if he could. Sleep was not an option, for several different reasons. Firstly it was the harbinger of nightmares. Then there was the fact that he was still paranoid about HYDRA finding him here, even though nothing pointed towards any activity on their part. That didn’t have to mean anything; they were used to being covert. It wasn’t like they would announce their plans openly on national television. All in all, it was prudent to put nothing past these people. He wasn’t even exactly sure what they had done to him. He knew they had used him as a weapon, a trained attack dog. He had, at present, little to no memory of anything before the fighting on the Helicarrier. He recalled the pain, the buzzing and whirring and crackling of electricity, being restrained in a chair and the feeling like his brain was being put through a meat grinder; so guessing that they had done something to very invasively mess with his head was a reasonable conclusion. Lastly there was you; he puzzled over you most. Why were you helping him? What was in it for you? Upon your first encounter you had seemed eager to be rid of him as soon as possible. Why were you so kind to him now? Who even were you?

The sun had risen over his nightly ruminations, bathing the living room in the first warm rays of sunshine. The Winter Soldier heard your alarm clock sounding shrilly and petulantly, and picked himself off the carpeted floor, leaving the bedding on the couch undisturbed yet another night.

“Morning…” you waved sleepily as you walked down the short hallway from your bedroom to the bath, stretching your shoulders as you yawned deeply. When you re-emerged, you found your house guest scowling indecisively at the kitchen cupboards, weighing a plate in one hand and a brightly colored bowl in the other.

“I’m having cereal. What would you like?” you interjected his troublesome deliberations. He considered the dishes for another moment, then replaced the plate with another bowl and carried both to the table.

“Coffee?” you half-asked, half-suggested when he returned for spoons and received a cursory nod.

 

His eyes shot open, and he swallowed deliberately slowly as he put his coffee mug back down on the table. You flinched guiltily. You liked your coffee strong, as in a coffee water ratio that left the beverage practically solid, and black as sin and cosmic voids. Skye used to joke that if the coffee you brewed was a person the Avengers would finally find their strength matched (you thought that was probably a little bit exaggerated; also you didn’t quite agree with the concept of your favorite beverage not only turning anthropomorphized, but also antagonistic, but that was a discussion for another time).

“You alright? Is it too strong? Do you want some milk?” you asked apprehensively. As far as you knew, you were quite alone in the world with your preference here.

“This stuff could raise the dead.” He answered emphatically. Well, emphatic considering his usual flat and hollow tone. That was still very much there, but a trace of emotion and a shadow of an accent had stolen themselves into his voice, something New Yorkian, maybe Queens or Brooklyn. It was too faint to really tell and it had been a while since you’d lived there, having left some time before the attack on New York City two years prior. You stored away the information in your head and regarded him watchfully as he picked the mug back up, taking another sip.

“So no milk then?” you chanced. Instead of answering he took a long, indulgent gulp, savoring every drop it seemed like.

“Where have you been all my life!?” you exclaimed enthusiastically, earning not quite a smile but a trace of a twinkle in his eyes. A tiny little light. It was a start.

 

You had left for work, instructing him again, though in person this time, to call in the event of…anything, really. The Winter Soldier had nodded gravely and remained completely still until the door clicked shut behind you, and in fact for the next quarter of an hour. This was due not so much to any internal over-stimulation (as well it might have been, for his mind was of late running at least four different thoughts at a time and it was rather wearisome and difficult for him to focus), but rather to the fact that his gaze had fallen on a framed photo in the bookcase. It showed you, a decidedly younger version yet still undeniably you, along with a slightly younger girl with long dark hair and shining dark eyes. Both of you were smiling, broadly, brightly, cheek to cheek while the sun shone down on you. This must be your friend, he concluded, the one on whose behalf you had learnt to deceive authority figures and evade punitive action. He noticed there were no other photographs in your apartment, no other friends, no family. Unless you’d hidden them somewhere it would appear you had no one else in this world (you did, in fact, have a huge album of older photos in your closet and several gigabytes worth of them on your computer, though he couldn’t know that). The thought stirred something inside him that was not quite sadness yet, bafflingly close to sympathy and somehow devastatingly familiar. _‘You are my friend!’_ the voice of the man in the blue-red-white suit insisted. He lingered upon the image for a while, considering it carefully, waiting if it would trigger anything but a deep sense of terror and confusion mixed with regret, anything resembling a recollection, no matter how vague. It did not. He shrugged it off and took to the bathroom to drown his disappointment and mountingly pungent body odor, now that the time of sponge baths administered by underpaid and overworked nurses was over.

The beard on his face was suddenly very itchy, now as he was carefully rinsing some of your peach-scented shampoo from his hair – in fact it was very itchy indeed, and distinctly uncomfortable, crumbling his resolve from the previous day to make himself as indiscernible as possible. He regarded the electric razor for a moment, trying the buttons and observing the rapidly buzzing blades with suspicion, before turning his gaze to the mirror and his reflection in it. He pointedly tried to ignore the images rising inside of his mind, wherein the edges of the mirror morphed into the porthole of a cryogenic chamber and the condensation of warm water clouded over the glass icily. He broke through it, somehow, and experienced for the first time in this life the freedom of making a choice not ruled by functionality but personal predilection. The razor buzzed in his hand, foreign and ungainly. He gripped it tight, like the handle of a gun, and he had to start over several times and even out spots he missed afterwards, and he mentally cursed all the way through in idioms and languages he hadn’t even been aware of he knew, but in the end it was worth it. He went on to inspect the tangled, but by now at least clean, mass of dark, shoulder-length hair on his head, and was forcibly removed from his ruminations on whether or not to do something about that by a petulant wailing outside the window. He quickly stalked to the bathroom door, stealthily, and opened it a crack. The wailing grew louder and more demanding. He thought there might me some hissing mingled in there. Closing the door behind him soundlessly, he slipped to the edge of the kitchen and peered to the window cautiously. A skinny red cat sat there, cocking its head upon seeing him, questioning how her human had wound up looking so different. She meowed again, demandingly and superior yet all the while endearing as only cats can, and the Winter Soldier remembered his instructions. He strode through the small kitchen, eyes never leaving the animal, not even as he bent down to retrieve a tin of cat food from the respective cupboard. Bad things could happen when you lost sight of your target - that he knew for certain, even if he didn’t really know a lot of things besides these kinds of things. In any case he fulfilled his mission objective unfailingly, and the cat seemed to warm to him with every noisy munch she took. Not that he was likely to notice that, not at this point anyway. He looked around the room, his gaze falling on the sink filled with this morning’s dirty dishes, and those of the previous evening, and then some.

 

You returned home with shoulders stiff as concrete, a small part of you fully expecting your inadvertent roommate to have bailed in the meantime. You were too exhausted to deal with the conflicting feelings of abject horror and complete apathy and a not inconsiderable amount of affront the notion instilled in you.

“I’m …home?” you asked flatly into the silence of your apartment. You were answered with something that sounded a lot like mewling, which deeply unsettled you in its absurdity. Deeply. You set your bag down with a sigh, shrugging off your shoes and shaking your head to rid it of any …unsoundness of mind.

“Anyone home?” you inquired, vaguely hopeful. Your house guest appeared in the shadow clouding your living room. The cat that you had taken partial ownership over in your mind was trailing at his heels and he looked substantially perturbed. You noticed, absently, that he had shaved and even put his long and frankly very unkempt, but now at least clean, hair up in a loose and not very skillful ponytail. You weren’t quite sure what that meant but you decided to take it as a good sign. And perhaps as a sign towards learning how to use a hairbrush.

“So, I take it the cat was there today.” You remarked nonchalantly, and went forth into the kitchen to determine what to have for dinner. Your mystery man trailed you and the cat trailed him, even after he stopped to glower at it both menacingly and uncertainly. You tried very hard not to snicker.

“It won’t leave.” He complained, apprehensive. You shrugged. “Cats and women will do as they please.” You turned to wink at your feline acquaintance before switching on the light and letting out a delighted gasp.

“Did you do the dishes?” you inquired, inspecting a shining clean plate daintily, sure you had to be imagining this. He bit his lip and frowned and generally looked unreasonably worried.

“Well, thank you then. I was not looking forward to having to do that, though you really didn’t have to.” You admitted. The cat meowed in corroboration. You moved to put some leftovers on plates to heat up while the Winter Soldier was left to try and compute that you were not, in fact, upset about anything. Quite the opposite, actually. He looked down at the cat, entreating it mentally to please explain his predicament and general weird spot in the universe right now, predictably to no avail.

“So, we adopted a cat now?” you questioned, rather amused, while the microwave crackled industriously behind you. Your inadvertent roommate looked down at the cat now seated atop the kitchen counter. The cat looked levelly up at him and meowed softly but insistently before standing on her hind legs, stretching her entire body like a sentient slinky, and placing her paws on his chest. Then she started licking his cheek and purring. He turned to you, looking somewhat helpless by so much feline affection coming his way. This had, in fact, been going on for most of the day and he was no closer to understanding this phenomenon, much less how to deal with it.

“Or maybe she adopted you.” You concluded, subtly clutching your sides.

His expression was one of intense disquiet. You felt you deserved some kind of very important medal for not bursting out laughing. Also you felt slightly horrible for your mirthfulness. Slightly.

“I’ve been feeding you for a year yet all he has to do is show up. I am wounded.” You addressed the cat with mock hurt. She artfully draped herself all over his broad shoulders and ignored you. He drew his lips into a thin line and crossed his arms more protectively than demonstratively. All that was missing was a huff, you thought, bemused.

“You should name her.” You told him after a prolonged pause that was largely characterized by his mounting befuddlement and the cat’s blithely oblivious purring. “It only seems apt after she’s basically imprinted on you.”

He looked at you with subtle alarm, coinciding with the microwave’s insistent pinging as it finished heating your dinners. You smiled at him encouragingly as you carried the plates to the table. He followed haltingly, awkwardly balancing the presence on his shoulders that was utterly devoid of need for such measures, being in no way gravitationally challenged.

 

“…Becky –“ he said quietly after a prolonged moment of intense internal consideration, one that, in fact, had carried on through most of dinner. The newly-christened cat meowed her approval, nuzzling into the crook of his neck, which caused him to squirm somewhat uncomfortably for a second. You hummed appreciatively through your post-feeding haze, pleased that your evening had turned out to be so entertaining, endearing even, if more than somewhat surreal. Becky. What a sweet name.

Wait a moment.

“Who is Becky? Anyone in particular?” You wished to retract your words immediately, upon seeing his face crumple, troubled and utterly lost. Damn. You’d thought that maybe, maybe he remembered something, or someone. That would be good for an amnesiac, wouldn’t it? That would be a great, exciting thing. Even a clue, perhaps, because you did not for one moment believe that absolutely no one was missing him.

“I don’t know. Someone I used to know growing up, I think.” His face was scrunched up in intense concentration, his voice was thin and quiet and his eyes were lost and uncertain. It tore your heart right out of your chest, figuratively, though it felt quite frighteningly literal. Suddenly possessed by an idea, you signaled him to wait right there for a moment, while you went diving into some drawers. You re-emerged victorious with a simple notepad and a pack of complimentary pens gotten from various places, which you placed in front of him, smiling somewhat shakily. He frowned down at the implements, then up at you, not taking your meaning. You supposed it was possible he was still caught up in recollections, or lack thereof, about Becky. Not Becky the newly christened cat.

“It might be a good idea,” you started, trying to sound confident, “to record what comes back to you, even if it seems small, or if you’re not sure. That way you can keep track and, uh, crosscheck, maybe, later on?” you faltered, waving your hand around vaguely. He considered this for a moment, and seemed to deem it plausible enough for he nodded pensively and didn’t look quite as tortured anymore, and even somewhat – grateful?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yay, a new friend for Bucky! Meet the self-appointed therapy cat ;)


	7. Night Tremor

A sharp voice demanded him to give a mission report, and a hard hand struck him when he failed to answer. He felt the sting in his neck acutely as it snapped viciously to the side with the force of the blow. A small part of him screamed to offer up some form of resistance, but to no avail. What use even was it to pay attention to the disturbing images his mind conjured up during the dream – he knew how it ended, with ‘Wipe him’ or ‘Put him on ice’, sometimes both. Often both, actually. Those were the three constants in his life: pain, confusion, and the unforgiving cold. That was his life, and this was how it ended and started anew each time. Wipe him. Put him on ice. That was the nightmare, and it was real.

He jolted awake with the buzzing and whirring and crackling or electric currents still in his ears, scream dying in his throat before it could break through. He felt so cold, so so cold, even though the sweat was collecting on his brow, pooling on his chest and dampening his shoulders. He sat up after allowing himself a moment to repeat the sentence that had become his mantra over the past few days: You are not with Hydra anymore, and you’re never going back. Already his battered body protested a lot less, his injuries healing much more quickly than humanly possible. He could probably pull his own stitches the following day and be done with it; the splint on his arm could come off by the day after. As for now it was the middle of the night, and he cursed himself for falling asleep in the first place. Becky looked up at him skeptically, having retreated behind the coffee table when he started stirring. She let out a mournful meow. Then he heard a shuffle of movement from the kitchen. Alert at once, he rose, pacing the few steps leading there stealthily. He found you leaning against the foremost counter, fighting and almost failing to put on a brave little smile. You looked pale and rattled, your eyes bloodshot and darting frantically.

“Sorry, did I wake you?” A hesitant shake of the head; his eyes were inquisitory. What are _you_ doing up in the middle of the night?

“Bad dream.” You elaborated flatly, drawing your dressing gown tighter around you as you shuddered at the memory. “I was just gonna get a glass of water.”

“What about you? You look kinda spooked. Nightmare as well?” You noticed him shivering slightly, noticed how the thin white t-shirt stuck to his chest and back from cold sweat, his posture, more guarded than usual but also betraying a greater vulnerability underneath. You saw his haunted eyes staring off into some unseen world beyond your tiny apartment while being acutely alert of his surroundings, and his hand gripping the wall, knuckles white. Eventually he nodded, with such weight as if it equaled a week in the cooler to admit so.

“How about I make us some warm milk with honey, now that you’re awake as well? I’m having one and you look like you could use one as well. It’s the ultimate nightmare soother. It’s like a warm, long hug from your mom and she’s telling you everything is gonna be alright after she cleared the monsters out of your closet and then she reads you your favorite bedtime story.” You realized you were rambling, but you didn’t stop. You felt it helped to anchor you in the now, chasing away the nightly visions that had horrified you so just moments before. “Well, it’s what I would imagine that to be like, anyway.” He gave you a puzzled look, waiting for you to explain your statement. You hadn’t meant to reveal that about yourself – it was not something you liked to talk about, but it was late and your dream had made you somewhat vulnerable. “I wouldn’t know what that’s like, really; having a mother I mean. I grew up in an orphanage. My… my parents left me by a dumpster right after I was born.” There, you said it, it was out now, he now knew more about you than he did about himself. You quickly busied yourself with pouring milk into two mugs and placing them in the microwave.

“That’s their loss, not yours.”

One simple sentence, spoken to your back in an uncertain yet sincere and sympathetic tone. It was the late hour, it had to be, and the nightmare, that too. You felt the tears pricking at the corners of your eyes and you blinked them away as you counted down with the microwave, anticipating the pinging noise that signaled your milks were done heating. You would have walked over there and hugged him, tightly and for an extended amount of time under different circumstances, that’s how much this little sentiment meant to you. But no, that would have been weird. Inappropriate, even.

“D’you want a Twinkie?” you asked after retrieving the jar of honey from its usual place, already reaching for the cupboard that held your secret stash of sweets.

 

The Winter Soldier observed you carefully, seeing the muscles in your neck coil and tighten as the words fell from your mouth like something bitter that you hadn’t been allowed to spit out. This was nothing he was ever programmed for, but a small voice deep inside him struggled to the surface, and in a moment of reckless abandon and general cluelessness he decided to let it, for the first time fully appreciating that no one was going to strap him down in a chair again and put his brain through a meat grinder for doing so.

“That’s their loss, not yours.” His mouth said with the little voice from the deepest recesses of his fractured mind. Great, now what? You pulled your shoulders tight in a suppressed sob, breathing deeply, then asked the microwave whether it would like a Twinkie (somehow he felt he knew what a Twinkie was, though if asked he couldn’t have described it). It pinged in response. The Winter Soldier still stood with his back to the living room, quietly observing you as you finished preparing the drinks and fished a handful of plastic-wrapped packets out of a cabinet. He only noticed again how cold he was when you placed the steaming mug in his clammy hand.

“Thank you.” You whispered, meeting his eyes only for a split second before padding over to the couch, stuffing the hitherto unused pillow behind your back. You took a small sip of your milk, finally allowing yourself to relax a little, then mustered a smile and patted the space beside you. The Winter Soldier followed, sitting awkwardly at a distance from you and staring ahead in silence. Becky came closer after a moment, curling up in the space between you. The little voice in his head seemed at a loss, or maybe it had retreated back into some undisclosed crevice of his scrambled brain. He took a sip of his own milk to bridge the silence, enjoying how the warmth spreading around his stomach, the rich nourishing taste, the sweetness of the honey. Hydra had not exactly been concerned with such things, lest he grow to assume that his comfort mattered at all. You offered him a Twinkie and he devoured it defiantly.

Something dropped on his shoulders. He froze, his muscles immediately tensing, readying himself for counter-measures. Violent counter-measures. He fought hard to keep his wits about him, not to let instinct take over. He conjured up the image of the man in blue, red and white along with the moment he had forsworn the use of violence and forsworn killing when he had decided to pull that man out of the Potomac. It was just this second of wavering that allowed him to realize that you were merely tucking a blanket around him. He exhaled slowly, deliberately, willfully banishing the tension from his muscles and the aggression from his mind.

“Sorry. You were shivering. Can’t have you catching a cold, now can we?” Your voice was quiet and soft and warm and sweet and about as unthreatening as can be. He shuddered to think what he might have ended up doing to you. You, unaware of his inner turmoil, continued to unwrap small pastries in companionable silence.  
Some thirty or forty minutes later the two of you had finished your drinks, and about a dozen packets of Twinkies. If you didn’t know better (which, truth be told, you actually did not, in fact), you’d have thought he was dozing (which he was, or as close to it as he could get, having been lulled and soothed by the miraculous powers of sugar and quiet, and above all, warm honeyed milk). You cast a glance at the clock and groaned inwardly. Too late to go back to sleep now, anyway. Fuck nightmares. You didn’t have them often - unlike your guest, you strongly assumed - but when you did they left you skittish and frayed for the rest of the night, usually, in 98% of known cases.

“Hey, roommate,” you called out softly, “Am I correct in assuming that you won’t be sleeping any more tonight either?”

He nodded lazily without hesitating, staring up at the ceiling and drawing the blanket tighter around his shoulders. You grinned.

“So I was thinking Star Trek marathon to pass the time. Opinions?”

“What is a Star Trek?” he asked, bewildered. Your jaw actually physically dropped. “You cannot be serious.” He just shrugged in response, and you thought that Hydra had just taken on a whole new layer of cruelty. You squared your shoulders defiantly and retrieved your Star Trek box set from its place (Skye had given it to you for your birthday. You quickly pushed the thought of her away. She still hadn’t called you back.), holding it up for him to see. “You, my friend, are in for a treat then.” You announced.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have only ever eaten one Twinkie in my life; I got it from an airport vending machine in Dallas with my last few coins.  
> According to my research Twinkies were invented in 1930, so it stands to reason that Steve and Bucky would have known what that was.  
> Also yay, reader backstory! Sorry it's so tragic, but I had to make it fit in with Skye's.  
> and while we're at it: Bucky 'the best double date activity is dragging you all to a science fair' Barnes is a giant nerd. Fight me on this. He probably read Buck Rogers comics (these are real things from when these two were young yeah I know) religiously as a boy. He would be so super into sci-fi and you will pry this headcanon from my cold dead hands. Bucky is Mulder and Steve is Scully when it comes to that. (great now I'm imagining Bucky and Jane Foster geeking out over space together)


	8. Outings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> special out-of-schedule chapter post for valentines day^^  
> reviews are still no less appreciated, so go for it! make my weekend^^  
> above all, enjoy!

It only took twice the usual amount of coffee to make you feel like a functioning human being again after staying up half the night, something you’d last done during your final finals week at MIT. So, after making sure your guest was good on his own you headed off to work. You had just gotten through the last of your mail, the day’s newspapers (still filled with stories about the fall of SHIELD, the HYDRA affair, and the mysterious assassin they now called the ‘Winter Soldier’) and three more cups of coffee when your secretary Pam poked her head in through the door.

“Hey boss, I’ve got Madam Over-Boss for you on three. And after that Doctor Laing wants to talk to you about the neural links, something about nerve relays. Hey, why are you researching amnesia?”

“Don’t call her that. She owns us.” You shot back at the slightly younger woman, a hint of reproach in your voice as you quickly changed to another window on your computer.

“Did she say what she wanted? The telephone conference isn’t until two.” Pam just shrugged her shoulders. You sighed and told her to put the call through to you. A hint of nervousness pulsed through you, but you pushed it down. It was entirely your own private business who you took into your home, even if they happened to be amnesiac fugitives from a recently exposed fascist cult. Besides, no one knew he was with you anyway (at least as far as you knew). In any case you hoped the phone call as well as the talk with the good and brilliant, if sometimes somewhat skittish doctor would leave you with enough time for your usual mid-day stint in the gym. You quickly fixed your hair before accepting the call via the video interface, upon which you were greeted by the holographic transmission of a sharply dressed woman with strawberry blonde hair.

“Good morning Miss Potts, how may I help you?”

\---

Steve ran a hand through his hair in agitation. He knew this wouldn’t be an easy undertaking, but he’d hoped for some kind of clue, a tiny subtle trace of breadcrumbs at least. But so far they’d only run into dead ends. Even Natasha’s file didn’t help with their search. It was like Bucky had dropped off the face of the earth, and he half feared that still existing HYDRA elements had gotten their hands on him and put him back on ice (or out of commission permanently, but that was a train of thought he did not particularly want to pursue). Yet after searching underground HYDRA facilities in the greater DC area, then the state, then the neighboring states, all he and Sam had found was the bank vault where Bucky had last been kept. Bucky hadn’t been there, and no HYDRA agent was to be found either. Just an empty cryostasis chamber (with telling scratch marks on the inside) and the machine they had apparently used to erase his memories. It had taken Sam all his powers of persuasion and reasoning to stop Steve from smashing the damn thing with his bare hands, and with Maria Hill’s help it had been delivered to Stark’s place in New York, in the hope that taking it apart may help them understand what exactly HYDRA had done to Bucky and thus how they might help him regain his memories, should they ever find him that is. But there was still no trace of Bucky himself; he appeared to have vanished into thin air after laying him down on that river bank.

“It’s a dead end.” Sam declared with finality. Steve grunted obstinately, making the other man sigh.

“We wasted too much time. The trace has gone cold by now.” The Captain said caustically. Sam rolled his eyes.

“Patching you back up after you almost died is not wasting time.” He observed patiently, though not for the first time. Steve didn’t answer, just stared doggedly at the empty file cabinets in front of him as if they would reveal their secrets if he only stared hard enough.

“We’re at the end of our rope here, man.” Sam tried to reason. “This is the kind of spy, secret government agency stuff we’re no good for. We’re out of our depth here, Steve. Let’s call in for some help.” Now it was Steve’s turn to sigh. He tore his eyes away from the cabinets and locked them on Sam unwillingly. Sam held out a phone for him, the number at the ready. “Just one little call.”

Steve gulped and took the phone, pressing the dial button.

\---

The Winter Soldier – loathed referring to himself by that description, but he presently lacked a better one. At least ‘Winter Soldier’ held a smidgeon more identity than ‘the asset’. The man in the blue, red and white suit had given him a name, but through the muddle of his tattered brain he couldn’t make it out anymore. Whenever he tried recalling their fight on the Helicarrier the usual and constant dull pain in his skull flared up, drowning out the words. He spent three hours trying to pierce through the haze, scribbling away on the notepad you’d given him with cramping fingers – to no avail. It only ended with him throwing up in the bathroom again, head feeling like it would split open down the middle any minute. He needed something else to occupy his mind, a tool that would help him focus and pull through the confusing flashes of disjointed images flooding through his brain. Washing the dishes had proved unexpectedly useful in this, but he’d already done that. So, after wiping down the kitchen counter and dusting off every shelf in your apartment he found himself at a bit of an impasse. This was the exact moment Becky the cat chose to knock over the laundry basket, sending sheets and towels spilling everywhere. Becky looked up at her newly adopted human with big, pleading kitten eyes from within her inadvertent towel nest and meowed softly.

“Good idea, B.” He murmured, his voice tinged with a sense of triumph, as he gathered up the laundry and headed for the washing machine that was thankfully inside your apartment. It didn’t take him long to figure out how to work the machine, and he dialed in the appropriate settings after shoving the first load inside.

 

“Hey champ, I’m twenty minutes away, but I gotta go grocery shopping. You wanna come hit the shops with me? If you feel up to it, that is. Might be more fun than burrowing inside all day every day.” You said by way of greeting after he had picked up the receiver, which frankly you hadn’t been sure he would. At least you thought he picked up. The click had been there, but all that answered you was the already characteristic silence, which was fine and dandy in face-to-face interaction, but over the phone – really not ideal. (though you thought you heard a soft meow in the background.)

“Hello? Roommate?” you prompted again, feeling vaguely hopeful. Well, more vaguely than hopeful, though you felt the two of you had made some progress already. You were just about to bribe him with the promise of cookies or gummy bears or something like that (blueberries perhaps, he had seemed to like those; perhaps you’d bake some blueberry muffins on the weekend, you hadn’t made any in ages – if your piled up household chores left you with enough time that is; the place needed some dusting and you hadn’t done laundry in ages) when you were answered with a soft ‘Okay.’

True enough, he sat at the dinner table expectantly and fully dressed when you arrived. It smelled faintly of laundry detergent, which was odd, but you decided it was probably just your psyche playing tricks on you; perhaps it was an underlying sense of guilt for neglecting your chores for so long. You called out to him that you only needed a minute to go through the apartment and complete your shopping list which you had already started during the day. You quickly swept through various drawers and cupboards, noting which containers were nearing their end and needed to be replaced. When you made your way into the bathroom, you were astonished to find your sheets and towels no longer dirty and crumpled, but clean, fresh and neatly folded, ready to be put away. You poked your head back out with an incredulous expression, staring for a moment at the man who was still sitting innocuously in your living room.

“Either you did the laundry or the cat is a household fairy in disguise.” He looked down in what you were tempted to describe as bashfulness. “I don’t know what to say.” You admitted sheepishly. He didn’t answer, of course, but by now you were almost used to it. It would have stunned you more to receive a reply at this point. You folded your completed list and snatched your purse and keys.

“Thank you. You didn’t have to do that, but thank you.” You said sincerely. This time you received a little nod in acknowledgement. You smiled and held open the door.

“Onward to more household chores!”

 

He strode through the supermarket with you, trailing you closely with hunched shoulders and hands thrust deep into his jacket pockets, meek and uncertain and not unlike an overgrown duckling. After crossing almost everything off your list and filling up your cart quite generously, you almost lost each other after rounding into the cereal aisle. You hadn’t noticed until you turned around to ask his opinion on Cinnamon Crunch vs Cheerios and the space behind your right shoulder was curiously empty. You found him with his back pressed closely to the spine of the shelves, eyes scanning frantically over the people in the hallways, none of which were you. A small child regarded the scene with their head tilted and their eyebrows furrowed.

“Your boyfriend looks scared, Miss.” It observed thoughtfully.

“Go find your parents.” You told the child flatly, taking your broody little duckling by the sleeve and gently guiding him back to your trolley.

“You okay there, champ?” you asked him levelly, keeping your voice deliberately calm and reassuring. He didn’t react, just stared straight ahead looking haggard and hunted. You very, very, exceedingly gently took his hands in yours. They were trembling.

“Let’s go home.” You decided and headed off in the direction of the check-outs.

The drive back to your apartment was spent in tense silence. You could actually feel the tension rolling off of your inadvertent house guest in waves, though as per usual he didn’t say anything. Not until prompted, anyway.

“You look like hell, soldier.” You observed after parking the car. He winced and instinctively cradled his left arm closer to him.

“How do you know I am… was a soldier?” he rasped morosely. You bit back any and all snarky, sarcastic and otherwise unhelpful comments.

“Well, between the thousand yard stares, obvious combat training and constant nightmares it’s not really hard to tell.” You answered, trying to sound diplomatic. “I don’t suppose it makes much sense asking you where you served, since you probably don’t remember…”

“I…no – there were mountains… high mountains…it was winter…I think I remember snow…” he started shivering then, as if the memory itself chilled him, vague as it apparently was. The constant dull ache in his skull spiked again, and he pressed his palms to his temples to alleviate it. You had no idea what to do, so you decided it was probably best not to crowd or pressure him, instead musing on his answer. Snowy mountains didn’t exactly fit in with Iraq or Afghanistan, so where could he have served? For a moment you lost him to his hazy memories. He came back with a heavy shudder and a vehement shake of his head.

“I almost snapped out there.” He admitted quietly, his voice heartbreakingly small. “It was so bright and so many people I almost couldn’t…I might have hurt someone. I might have hurt you.” He said remorsefully. Your heart sank as you considered for a moment that you had put him under stress, even unwittingly, and placed others in potential danger.

“But you didn’t.” you concluded eventually, causing him to fix you in a disbelieving stare. You replied levelly, extending your hands again, palms upward.

“You say you almost lost it, but you didn’t. You didn’t, and nobody got hurt; that’s all that matters. I wouldn’t have put you in that position of I’d guessed that it might trigger something, and really, I’m sorry, but at the end of the day everyone is okay. You handled it. You managed it; that’s what counts.” He considered this, but seemed unconvinced, looking down at his clenched fists miserably. You hated how he bottled everything up inside.

“Look, you don’t have to talk to me about it if you don’t want. Tell Becky, tell the TV set, hell, tell the damn wall, just don’t hold it all in.”

“You don’t know what I am capable of.” He ground out between clenched teeth, seemingly ignoring your previous statement. You sighed irritably. Why couldn’t he at least have waited until you were inside and your groceries put away for this dash down Angst Avenue? Sighing more, you unbuckled your seat belt and reached for your purse, reminding yourself to be patient with him and his various traumas that you had no real clue how to deal with.

“Well, I’m capable of splitting a man’s skull with a frying pan without feeling too bad about it, so…” you waved your hands vaguely, earning a frown. In fact, you were capable of a lot more than that if people you cared about (read: Skye) were in danger, but your exploits with other means of inflicting harm were a confession for another time. When you received no further reply, you got out of the car and went to grab the grocery bags from the trunk. You heard the passenger door click open and shut, but you didn’t hear his steps coming up behind you and started a little when his hand shot out to take an obscene number of the heavily laden plastic bags as if they weighed nothing at all. You pursed your lips, grabbed the remaining bags, and hurried after him after locking up your car. It seemed like he was done talking for the moment (and possibly the rest of the day, too), so you passed the short elevator ride in silence. You tried to ignore the gloominess coming off him while finally putting away your groceries, but it was grating at you nonetheless. Not wanting to cook dinner with anger in your stomach, you turned to him after the last item had been stowed into its proper place, hands set on your hips confrontationally. You were only able to get out an aggravated ‘Now listen he…’ before being interrupted.

“You don’t know what you are getting yourself into.” He said, voice thin with adjuration. You frowned up at him darkly. He dropped his gaze to the floor, suddenly very interested in the pattern of the kitchen tiles.

“Now that is just offensively patronizing.” You informed him sourly. “It’s my decision what I do or do not ‘get myself into’ and it’s been made.”

He balked, perturbed at your lack of fear or even just vexation. Facing HYDRA should probably scare you a lot more than it currently did (though even if it had you would not abandon a friend to people like them). You shrugged vaguely, maintaining your scowl for good measure. Let them come; you had already caved in the skull of one of theirs with your frying pan. You still had your trusty baseball bat, which you were pretty handy with, having played for most of your life. Let those HYDRA bastards come, you thought.

“Two years ago, aliens descended upon New York and tried to take over the world. A hammer-swinging hunk from the realm of myths has fought some weird elf-dudes in London this spring while some sort of space dimension portal was happening. One of the richest people on the planet flies around fighting crime in a self-made tin can. Before all that Harlem was all but levelled by two giant creatures, and as it turns out now the world’s espionage apparatus has been infiltrated by some fascist cult all along. The world is a much stranger place than we were made to believe when we were kids. Really, at this point a talking raccoon and a walking tree dropping out of the sky wouldn’t surprise me. I’ve decided to just accept the weirdness and carry on with my life; it’s not like I can do anything about it.”

“…A talking raccoon?” he questioned after just staring at you dumbfounded for a moment.

“Oh yeah, you’re right, already have that – well, at least since you’ve actually started talking.” The look you got in response was completely worth it.

“You are very odd.” He declared eventually, raising a skeptic eyebrow.

“Oh, the metal-armed amnesiac calls me odd, that’s quite rich.” You quipped cheekily, your previous ire having thankfully dissipated in the meantime.

“I thought you just accept the weirdness.” He shot back. You thought you heard a trace of sarcasm in his tone, indicating that he might actually be trying to make a joke. You smirked.

“Acknowledging that something is out of the ordinary and deciding not to be fazed by it are two different things.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Steve and Sam up all night to find Bucky who is busy being domestic and helpful at your place. who are they asking for help? Stay tuned to find out. Maybe you can guess though ;)


	9. My Good Opinion

This dream is different from the ones he’s had hitherto. It feels more distant, older, yet more real as the images and sensations rip through him like something that has burned itself into his skin down to his very bones and the scar lines are now being retraced. There is a train and snow and howling wind and the relentless pull of gravity as he falls. It is the first time his screams don’t stick to the back of his throat, choking him, but break free, faint to his own ears as he is still falling and the wind in his ears drowns out all other sounds almost completely, but clear and loud and startling to you as you sit bolt upright in your bed.

“Hey,” you called softly into the darkness of your living room, “Are you alright?” His wheezing and panting is loud in the otherwise still night. The sounds he emits are worrying, and you cautiously go to investigate. He is curled up in his customary spot where wall, couch and coffee table form a cave, bedding undisturbed for the fourth night now. Undisturbed but for the cat Becky, who had been sleeping on the plush pillow, but is now up as well, meowing at you woefully. You address him again, patiently, kneeling down at an unthreatening distance. His shoulders spasm as he pulls himself up, eyes wide and unsettled as they land on you. He moves to speak, but his throat is too raw and parched and torn to get out anything beyond croaking.

“Water.” you suggest pragmatically, as his eyes go out of focus again, widening at some horror you cannot see. When you return with the filled cup, he has drawn himself up on all fours, still breathing heavily, shoulders rising in erratic motions. His hands are shaking even though they are gripping the carpet for dear life and half his weight rests on them.

His throat constricts violently, convulsively. A hand cups the back of his neck intrepidly, cool against his heated skin. He is a furnace, he is burning; fire needs air, which he cannot get in sufficient quantities, or water to put it out. There is water, he realizes, rejoicing on a deeply archaic level of nerves and instincts. He tilts his head back against the hand, which is small yet able to support his head which feels like it weighs tons, and lets the edge of a cup be placed against his chafed lips and a slow, thin trickle of fresh water run down into his parched, raw throat. He is too greedy, forgets to breathe; it leaves him sputtering and reeling. The small cool hand around his neck is removed to administer some firm pats to his back, shaking loose the drops that would have lodged in his lungs. He leans back, forcing himself to stop breathing altogether for a moment, regaining control over his body. He draws a long slow breath and releases it, repeats this process a few times until the shadows in his visions clear and the blurriness subsides. Your worried face comes into focus, brows knits together, at a loss. He tries to speak, but his throat is raw with the ghosts of screams from graves. You offer him the cup again. He is restless, coming apart at the seams. You observe his darting eyes, wide and with deep dark circles underneath them, but for the first time not so terribly, inhumanly hollow. You observe, similarly, his diminishing frame, the sharp angles of his cheeks and jaw becoming more pronounced by the day. He is not eating as much as he needs to for someone with his built, you strongly suspect (this is more due to him throwing back up most of what he eats each day when you’re gone, which in turn you can’t know since he doesn’t mention it). He is haggard and fading under your very hands. He is slipping away, you can feel it, drifting into a void of darkness and pain. You need to pull him back. You have no idea how to deal with so much trauma barely contained within one lone human, but you need to pull him back from the edge or he will fall.

Your hands cover his, still fastened into the carpet. Your hands are so small in comparison, and their touch is so light that he blinks, testing whether they are really there. Your voice registers with him almost as an afterthought. It’s nothing substantial, you are rattling off random facts and blithe anecdotes. When you run out of those you snatch a book at random from the small pile on the coffee table and end up reading him three chapters from le Carré’s _The Spy Who Came In From The Cold_. It’s not about the content of your words; their purpose is to draw his attention away from whatever is clawing at his mind and anchor him in the now with the grip of your fingers. He fell from a winter train directly onto the brash metal of an operating table, and even though he can move and is moving he feels like he cannot and his back is shattered and his arm is phantom fire and he has no air inside of him and he will surely die and wonders what the hell is taking so long. He fell from a train through winter and landed on a cold metal table but the carpet under his fingers is soft and your hands on his are warm and your voice in his ears is both as it pierces through the veil and carries him back to the present.

After a while he had calmed down enough to know where he is again and even drifts back into a dozing, if not particularly deep, sleep. He was still curled up on the floor, and you had no means to move him. You draped the blanket over him, figuring it was the least you could do. Not wanting to leave him alone when he’d been in such a state of distress, you elected to stay and curled up on the couch after retrieving another of your countless blankets for yourself. Becky snuggled into your side warmly and within moments you were fast asleep.

 

The night had been intense, but you decided not to mention it unless he brought it up, chances of which were slim at best. He looked a bit puzzled to be under a blanket when he woke, but other than that you thought he looked comparably well. Not quite as dreadfully pallid as before, you fancied; a slightly livelier shade of ghost. You smiled down at him tiredly, yawned widely and closed your eyes again, ready to drift back to dreamland.

“Don’t you have to go to work today?” he asked hesitantly. It was a fair enough question, seeing as you had gone every day since bringing him home with you. All week long. Goodness, had it really been a week already?

“Nah.” You yawned, shifting under your blanket. The couch wasn’t uncomfortable by any stretch, but you were used to having your queen-sized bed all to yourself. Or had grown used to it since breaking up with that scumbag you’d called your boyfriend half a year ago at any rate.

You felt his gaze on you, and heard the blanket rustle as he moved. With a groan you forced your eyes open.

“You got anywhere to be, champ?” you drawled, too tired to be bothered to speak clearly. It seemed he understood you well enough. He shook his head.

“Okay good, didn’t think so.” You grumbled, drawing your blanket up over your head to block out the light. No noise and no movement next to you indicated that he hadn’t moved and still sat huddled on the ground, observing you. You tried to ignore it and go back to sleep but it was no use. Like it or not, you were awake now. Too awake at least to just go back to sleep (but not awake enough to willingly get up either). Still tired and somewhat annoyed, you pushed down your blanket just far enough to fix your guest in a mild scowl.

“Why don’t you have to go to work today?” he asked earnestly.

“It’s Saturday.” You answered matter-of-factly. He considered your answer at far more length than you thought it could possibly warrant and felt yourself drift slowly back to the sweet realms of sleep.

“________?” he said softly after a long pause. You grumbled something unintelligible, refusing to open your eyes. “You said you had to take me to the hospital again.”

You let an affirmative huff. Becky chose this exact moment to start stirring and knead her paws into your kidneys insistently. You sighed, cursing your propensity for taking in strays, especially those who would team up to bother you when you wanted to sleep. It was true, though. You had said that, because the doctors had instructed you to return. Not that you’d planned to follow their instructions at any point, though that was mainly because you’d hoped the situation would have resolved itself by then. Instead you’d unwittingly ended up with a live-in household fairy, and one with a mysterious past and issues as deep as the Mariana Trench at that.

“You don’t wanna go there again.” You observed, cracking your eyes open just a fraction to see his response since it was probably just going to be a nod. It was.

“Okay.”

“What?”

“You don’t wanna go back to the hospital. Okay. I’m not fond of the place either. So we don’t go; it’s not like they’ll send out search parties.” You yawned demonstratively and turned on your side suddenly, forcing the cat to abandon the assault on your lower back. She jumped away with an indignant meow, landing in his lap and looking up at him with big, wounded eyes.

“Be a darling and feed the cat and just let me sleep some more okay?” you grumbled, pulling the blanket back over your head. You felt his eyes linger on you insistently, but this time you managed to ignore it and eventually he got up, pitifully meowing Becky trailing at his heels until she got her food. By that time you had already drifted back into a light sleep, barely registering the myriad small noises around you. To his credit it must be said that he did his best to be very quiet as he moved around the apartment, going about his morning routine of checking the perimeter and shaving after a short hot shower. You awoke about an hour later to the scrumptious smell of fresh pancakes wafting through your apartment. Considerably more rested, you threw off your covers and stretched your back. Quietly you got up and padded over to stand at the kitchen entrance, watching him pile pancakes onto plates while Becky looked on with intrigue. You contented yourself with doing the same for the moment. He’d helped you cook the days before, after awkwardly hovering in the spot that you presently occupied, until you’d relented and given him something to do (he turned out to be a remarkably accomplished vegetable chopper).

“If only I’d known beforehand you’d make such a good house spouse.”

He whirled around, spatula raised ready to strike, but relaxed as soon as he saw it was just you. The corners of his mouth curled the tiniest bit. It wasn’t quite a smile yet, but definitely getting there. The stacks of pancakes looked like they could feed a family of four by now. Luckily you were famished.

\---

Normally, Steve Rogers wasn’t one to hold grudges irrationally. He also detested being lied to, no matter how well-meaning the intentions. Sure, rationally he knew they needed the help if they were to ever find Bucky, but that didn’t mean he had to like it.

“Neighbor.” Steve said coldly, letting the blonde woman in grudgingly.

He caught Sam’s pointed look and sighed inwardly, trying to muster his manners. Let it not be said that Sarah Rogers raised a complete lout.

“It’s Sharon, actually. Sharon Carter.” She quipped nonchalantly, brushing past him purposefully and setting her heavy looking bag on the floor. “So what exactly are we doing?”

Steve is halfway through explaining that they’re looking for Bucky and have run out of leads and maybe hopefully she can help because to find a spy you have to think like a spy when the gears click into place. Carter is a common enough name, but he distinctly recalls Peggy telling him proudly about her baby brother’s little girl the up-and-coming SHIELD recruit in one of her more lucid moments. It’s a good thing he was already sitting. Sharon has been setting up her equipment as he was speaking and is now typing away on a laptop while explaining that she’d first go with facial recognition via public security cameras, which might be a tad harder to do than it once was since SHIELD’s servers aren’t exactly available anymore but she’ll do what she can with the limited resources. Steve just nods dumbly.

“That’s… odd.” Sharon said, hand hovering over the keyboard.

“What is?” Sam asks from his place in the open kitchen where has graciously been making them all some coffee, and since Steve is still very invested in his impression of a beached codfish.

“SHIELD’s main servers – they aren’t down. They’re still active.” Sharon squints at her laptop screen over folded hands, running through several different scenarios as to why this may be the case in her head, none of which she can really confirm or refute from here. Unless…

“I wonder whether…” my login still works, she completes mentally, punching in the appropriate codes. No instant viruses or blaring alarms happen, so that’s a good sign, she reasons, and proceeds to feed some footage of the Winter Soldier’s, Bucky’s, face to the facial recognition software, setting the parameters for the wider DC area in the time since the Helicarriers went down.

“Anything?” Steve inquired apprehensively, pacing behind where Sharon is sitting in a most vexing manner now, having gotten up about three minutes prior, and stopping only to look over her shoulder occasionally. She tries not to let it irk her too much as she sifts through the possible matches, discarding most quickly. One pops up, the image recorded by a traffic cam on the outskirts of DC. It shows four shadowy figures in full tactical combat gear in hot pursuit of a lone figure with a decidedly metal arm. He looks back as he aims a weapon at his pursuers, taking out two. He faces the camera fully, and enlarging the image only serves to confirm what they already know at this point.

“It’s him.” Steve breathes, clawing into the back of her seat and leaning in slightly too close for comfort. His eyes are glued to the grainy footage of the pinched and bruised face of the Winter Soldier on an empty intersection heading out of Washington in the direction north-north-west.

“That’s all. It’s from the same day the Helicarriers went down.” Sharon stated, a subtle feeling of dread and regret settling in her stomach. Now they knew he was headed towards Bethesda some two weeks ago, HYDRA agents all but snapping at his heels. That was not actually very reassuring. Steve’s jaw did that clenching thing, brows furrowing darkly, nothing of which could escape Sharon since they were still basically cheek to cheek and staring down at the screen of her laptop.

“So, any other ideas?” Sam said calmly as he put down that mug of coffee for her and placed a reassuring hand on Steve’s tense shoulder.

“A few,” she conceded, stretching her fingers before beginning to type away at the keyboard again, “I can’t make any promises though.”

\---

“Sorry for being so grouchy earlier. Not a morning person.” Ever the articulate one, he just grunted in reply while tearing through his pancakes like a very potent weapon of breakfast mass destruction. Though if you were honest you were glad to see that his appetite hadn’t been impacted by that latest nightmare. You also noticed that he’d taken off his splint already and was moving the recently broken arm as if nothing ever happened to it. Really, those healing abilities of his were superhuman. That brought you to another thought.

“You’ll still need your stitches pulled though.” His reaction was instant, fork clattering back on the table loudly, making Becky jump and hiss. You flinched.

“You said you wouldn’t make me go back.” He whispered diffidently, tone half wounded, half suspicious.

“I’m not, sweetie, really I’m not, but those stitches still have to come out.” He looked ready to bail at a moment’s notice, shoulders tensing and eyes darting to the door. You put up your hands in a gesture of placation. “Relax, I can do that here, but it has to be done.” You replied firmly. His expression changed from fright to confusion.

“You can do that? Are you a doctor?” It occurred to the Winter Soldier at this moment that he’d never asked you what you do for a living. In fact, he’d never asked you anything about yourself. Discerning that you were associated with neither HYDRA nor SHIELD had been enough for him so far. He had grown careless.

“Oh no,” you smiled affably, “I wanted to be one, originally, but I didn’t have the stomach for it. And I hate being inside hospitals, so, not really favorable conditions.” Until that realization though you’d done whatever you could to foster your ambition, taking first-aid courses, doing volunteer work, interning at local hospitals and clinics – it had left you with the revelation that you weren’t cut out for the job on account of caring too much, getting too invested in every single patients’ fate, but also a sound medical skill set. Pulling stitches was as easy as chopping carrots to you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sharon to the rescue!


	10. Stay With Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yay, first ten chapters!

It took her an embarrassingly long time to notice the little blinking alarm, Skye reflected, which was perhaps due to the fact that it was just a tiny purple flashing light at the bottom of the screen and she had been way too enraptured in following a virtual HYDRA paper trail. The tiny purple alarm was something she had installed to serve as a warning should anyone outside of their small vetted group of renegades try to access SHIELD’s servers; it was just one of many cyber-security measures put in place. She swiftly determined that whoever was using their servers did not try to steal or plant anything, which was in itself relieving, but brought on the question what, then, exactly they were trying to accomplish. The login was that of a former Special Service agent, number 13 to be precise, and they seemed to have been using the server capacity for research. Skye couldn’t access that data safely from her laptop in her bunk, and since she needed to inform Coulson of this anyway, she quickly snatched up the computer and made her way to Coulson’s office.

“We have a weird Code Purple!” she announced after knocking and entering. There was a main interface in that office, laden with every cyber-security measure she could think of and then some, and she punched in combination after combination while making her report.

“They searched security camera feeds and police and hospital records using footage from that street fight in DC, you know?, when they arrested Captain America.” Of course Coulson would know which fight she meant. “My theory is that whoever they are, they’re looking for either the Cap or that Winter Soldier guy, since he’s still at large somewhere for all we know, right?”

“Agent 13 you said?” Coulson asked, face inscrutable.

“Yeah, you know who that is?”

“I do, and if it’s actually her using her login we shouldn’t be in danger, but we need to make sure.” He called May, asking her to come and relaying this potential new development to her as she was on her way. Then, disappointingly, he sent Skye away, instructing her to inform him immediately should anything similar pop up.

\---

The Soldier sat in your kitchen, back ramrod straight, just where you’d placed him on a stool in the warm sunlight. He peered suspiciously at the array of equipment you’d arranged on the counter – the scissors with the one wickedly thin and pointed blade, the pair of tweezers, the disinfectant, bandages and antibiotic ointment, some cotton balls, a small bowl containing warm soapy water and a clean towel, fresh out of the dryer – before locking his eyes back on you. He didn’t know how to feel about letting anyone near him with something sharp, even though he had gained a degree of tentative trust in you. He wished he could just have done it himself, but unfortunately most of the sutures were on his back where he couldn’t reach them.

“That’ll have to come off, you know.” You stated calmly, nodding to his shirt as you washed your hands. His reaction times were getting shorter, you noted with a certain degree of delight, and he pulled the simple blue cotton shirt over his head with only minimal hesitation.

The last time you’d been that close to him in a similar state of undress had been when picking him up from the hospital. Back then you had primarily noticed the cluster of dark mottled bruises all over his torso, only intersected by the white of bandages. Either of which were gone now, leaving only smooth skin and toned muscle in their wake. Well, that and the stitches. You pushed any and all inappropriate thoughts from your mind and made an offhanded comment on how well he’d healed. You noticed how tense he was, and figured it was probably best to distract him while you worked. He held himself taut as a drawn bowstring, seemingly clenching up further with every movement of yours. Yep, you definitely needed him to relax some, otherwise this wouldn’t work out. If only you knew how. You were taking too long to come up with something, drying your hands still although there was no water left on them. It was then that he surprised you yet again.

“Can I ask you something?” he spoke up meekly, eyes darting to meet yours only for a fraction of a second before he averted them.

“Sure.” You finally put the towel away, leaning against the kitchen counter as you waited for him to speak.

“Why did you help me?”

“Do you mean generally or …”

“When we… I was… on the night we met, why did you choose to help me?” And not them?, the question hung in the air unvocalized; you recognized it all the same.  
“Two against one, and he was attacking you from behind – never did like that much. It reeks of bully.”

He reached for your hand, taking it in his and squeezing so gently it was nearly imperceptible. The first time you had offered your hand to him he’d perceived it as an order and for all the breaks in his programming hadn’t dared refuse. To his surprise he’d found the simple touch to be both comforting and grounding, and had grown to almost crave it deep down, though until this moment he had never been the one to take the initiative. You squeezed back, in a way that you hoped came across as reassuring. In any case you were glad he seemed to be opening up more.

An indignant meow jarred you both from the moment, and you shot the cat a reproachful glare as you saw the tension immediately seeping back into him.

“Are you still okay to go through with this? You seem a bit …on edge.” He nodded sharply, mouth set in a firm line as his eyes were glued to your instruments.

“You said the stitches need to be pulled.” He ground out between gritted teeth.

“They do, eventually, but I’d rather not do this if you aren’t comfortable. Right now you don’t seem comfortable at all – actually you look like you’ll snap clean in half if you so much as move wrong – so if you’d rather postpone a bit we can absolutely do that. Or you could assist me, maybe that would make you feel more at ease.” You didn’t know which part of your little speech did it, but you saw him soften, dispelling the tension from his body with a few deep breaths. His jaw set in determination.

“No, let’s do this. Now.”

 

The biggest scar is from a long laceration along his ribs, sloping down his torso from his side until just under the ridge of his ribcage, more than twenty stitches. He understands that is where the falling rafter pinned him down and crushed his ribs, and the further exertion of fleeing and fighting made the bone fragments shift and pierce things that should not be pierced. All that was healed now, and only a dotted line of white scar tissue remained. He held the tweezers, pulling up the threads so you could sever them with the scissors, then pulling the pieces out of his flesh.

“Those pancakes were delicious by the way, if you couldn’t tell from the way I basically inhaled them.” You said casually, moving to prepare the sutures on his back by lightly cleaning them with the towel and warm soapy water. There had been eight bullets. Curiously there are nine scars, the ninth stemming from him digging out the tracker implanted at the base of his neck, which was how the HYDRA goons who’d ended up chasing him all the way to your apartment had found him in the first place. Luckily you were too immersed in your current task to muse on mathematics that didn’t quite add up. But back to the pancakes. The urge to make them had seemed right, and the knowledge how to had simply been present in his brain. The smell of them, once made, had in turn brought back the vaguest of recollections, more a sense of a memory than a memory in and by itself. He knew he connected those pancakes with home, but the sensation seemed impossibly far away now, a mere child’s fancy. It seemed a ridiculous notion now that he’d ever even had a home.

“My mother’s recipe …I think.” He answers plaintively, and is suddenly struck by the image of skirt- and apron-clad legs stood in front of a kitchen counter that he is barely tall enough to reach and he almost feels the hand patting his head affectionately. Looking up he expects to see a face, maybe even hear a voice (maybe the voice will reveal his name to him, finally, even if it’s just a nick name; he is so tired of not being anybody), but when he looks up there is nothing there – the memory ends in fog. He can’t even remember his own mother’s face. Who among those fortunate enough to have their mother long enough to commit her to memory cannot recall her face? He realizes once again just how much HYDRA took from him and feels the first shy tendrils of something akin to wrath stir in the pit of his stomach.

“Well, I know that’s not exactly consolation, but I don’t know my mother’s name either, if that helps.” Your words are accompanied by a little stinging tug at the skin of his right shoulder and a muffled curse and he realizes that he must have been speaking his thoughts aloud, before. It doesn’t bother him as much as he thought it would.

All the stitches had been easy to remove, except for the very last one of course. You dabbed at the minute trickle of blood and covered it with a bandage. After placing your supplies back on the counter to be cleared away afterwards, you timidly handed him back his shirt. He thanked you quietly and slipped it back on, moving to help you as soon as he was clothed again, but you gently sent him away. There was no denying it anymore now, he was fully healed, physically at least. Putting away the last of your pieces of equipment you made up your mind. Now came the hard part: getting the words out there.

“So, you know how I said before, that you could stay until you’re better…” your voice faltered, your stomach dropping a bit at what you were about to suggest. To any reasonable outside person this would surely seem insane, but then again so would have taking him in in the first place.

“That was very kind of you.” He replied softly, still standing awkwardly in the kitchen. You made the mistake of raising your gaze to his face. There was vulnerability there, hidden imperfectly behind a blank mask. Time to get it out already, you chided yourself.

“If you wanted to stay, here, longer, I mean from now on still and longer I… I wouldn’t mind.” You spoke quietly, barely above a murmur, stuttering pitifully, too; and stared doggedly ahead, intent on not meeting his gaze. “Only if you want.” You quickly added, as if that would somehow erase the tone of supplication from your voice, which of course it didn’t.

He inhaled deeply, bracing himself and buying time by twiddling with his sleeve.

“I am the Winter Soldier… or I was-“ His tone was apprehensive and oddly devoid of hope. Hope that you wouldn’t know what to make of that or hope that you wouldn’t mind? In any case you were about to give him an answer.

“I kinda pieced that together.” You admitted, rather sheepishly. The stuff was all over the internet after all, not even speaking of the various TV programs, newspaper articles, radio shows and general chatter on the streets, and even if you didn’t outright inquire that didn’t mean you hadn’t been curious. You had just counted on him confiding in you eventually. And apparently you had been right.

His head snapped up, eyes incredulous. You shrugged. “To be honest, it was more of a very strong suspicion until just now.” At a loss for what to do, you shrugged again. “It doesn’t change anything.”

“How can you be so unconcerned?” he entreated you, intently, disbelieving. You were more caught off guard by the fact that he addressed you like this at all.

“Look, it’s been what, two weeks now? You’ve not given me any reason to; I mean I have not felt unsafe or in danger at any point during that time. Whatever it is you are worried about, all the evidence points toward the fact that it isn’t happening. Either you have pretty solid handle on it, or it’s not actually as big an issue as you seem to believe.” You held out your hand to him, palm upward, as it had become a habit by now. He took it hesitantly, his fingers remaining yet stiff as yours gently curled around them. “I trust you; I trust you’ll not hurt me. Okay?”

“…Okay.” He said after a moment of inner debate. The word sounded solemn, more like a vow than an admission, as if he was more placated than reassured or even convinced.

“So, you’ll stay?” you asked, twiddling the fingers of your free hand hopefully in anticipation of his answer. You really didn’t want him to leave anymore. It wasn’t just that you felt responsible for him, or that you sensed he still needed help, but that in the short amount of time you had grown accustomed to his presence and if he left again you would feel more alone than you had before.

“I have nowhere else to go.” Not the answer you were craving deep down, but you’d take it. You reached into your pocket and procured the spare key to your apartment. You placed it in his hand with a smile and gently closed his fingers around the small piece of metal, vaguely wondering why you knew that you could trust this man who didn’t even remember his own name.

He felt the edges of the key dig subtly into his flesh, the sensation an oddly tangible proof of trust he hadn’t been afforded in a long time (if one didn’t count the man in the blue-white-red suit who had entrusted his own life to the Winter Soldier’s mercy, a gamble if anything; that man who was so strangely familiar appeared to lack any sense of self-preservation). He knew he was still a far way off from being okay, but for the first time since his world crumbled amidst the wreckage of the Helicarrier he felt like he might be one day.

\--- 

This was the third time they got together like this and so far nothing had yielded actual results. Steve was getting impatient again, unhappy with scouring the digital world for scraps that ultimately led to dead ends. This was a last resort, though she didn’t think it would render up anything substantial. Then again what harm ever came from being thorough?

Sharon was in the process of adjusting the parameters for sifting through recent hospital reports when her phone rang. The phone that only a handful of people knew the number of, about half of whom were currently in the room with her. No caller ID, naturally. Sharon suppressed a sigh and answered cautiously.

“Who is this?”

“Agent 13, please confirm your identity and status."

“Melinda!” she exclaimed, mind put at ease immediately at recognizing the other agent’s voice. Steve looked bewildered, as did Sam, but she gave them a reassuring wave, "Agent 13, Sharon Carter, badge number 9623 8373 1736, though I suppose that’s not exactly valid anymore. What's the matter?"

"We have a security breach. Someone's accessing our servers through your old login and running various searches. Please tell me that's you and there's a good reason for this."

“Yeah, that’s me. Captain Rogers asked for my help in locating the Winter Soldier.” Steve gave her a look, which she ignored in favor of filling in her former colleague, in turn learning that SHIELD continued to exist in the shadows. Steve made a face at that, and a sound that sounded a bit like a huff, but refrained from saying anything, thankfully. Meanwhile her search request was gathering hits, the majority of which she could dispel fairly easily. It had been a far shot, since it wasn’t that likely that the Winter Soldier would just walk into a hospital to get patched up, but better safe than sorry. One result caught her eye, from Sibley Memorial Hospital, which reported the odd case of a young man who recovered from major traumatic surgery and several bullet wounds within a week, or at least enough so to be sent home. With May’s help they pulled up the records and security camera feeds. The names and address were false, but this was unmistakably the man they were looking for, and Steve forgot everything else as his eyes were glued to the slightly grainy image of Bucky lying in a hospital bed, being wheeled through the corridors. According to the hospital’s records, he had been brought there and taken back by a young woman who according to basically every other database didn’t exist. (Well, there was a pre-schooler in Palo Alto and a pensioner in Johannesburg by that name, both of which they could reasonably discount.)

The name you had given in the official forms at the hospital had been a false one, a mashup of two of your caretakers at the orphanage where you had grown up, both of whom were long deceased – at the same time an obscure reference to medical history. You had used it to set up a ‘bail fund’ in case Skye should ever get into trouble (or generally just in case). Of course none of the agents currently trying to discern your identity could possibly know that. Curiously, there was no actual footage of you that was worth anything (though Sam briefly thought he recognized you at one point), making a facial recognition scan a fruitless endeavor. Nevertheless Sharon and May ran search after search for the mystery woman, all of them coming to dead ends.

“Seems like we’ll be making a trip back to the hospital, then.” Sam quipped, ever practical-minded and already jotting down the name of the doctor who had been in charge of Bucky’s treatment along with all other relevant information.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enter the Agents of Unemployment crowd/inadvertent spy family, purely functional shirtlessness and a promising lead for the search party


	11. Would I were steadfast as thou art

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello sweetpeas, I'm posting this chapter a bit earlier because tomorrow I have a dentist's appointment and I gotta get up early and drive halfway across the country first (fun) and otherwise you wouldn't get the chapter until tuesday afternoon my local time so yeah, enjoy^^

It was bound to happen eventually, he will reflect later, with the way he’s been holding everything in, forcing down every little urge and tick and reflex. Ironic, really. He’s kept himself under tighter control than HYDRA ever did, all in the attempt not to inflict any more harm on anyone. There is a deep dark void inside him, but even that has to overflow in the end, apparently. The lid blows off after he dozed off on the couch, paying only half-hearted attention to what you were watching on the TV. The trigger is a random noise from the TV program, jarring him awake and going straight to the center of his programming. The cat all but flies away with a hiss, sensing the sudden change in her human pillow. Her bushy tail fluffs out as if she’d been struck by electricity, making her larger than she is as she stares down the yet significantly larger predator across the coffee table. The Winter Soldier stands ready to pounce, every muscle tensed and ready. He stares at the TV, where a reporter’s voice over rattles off Alexander Pierce’s impressive biography, only Pierce isn’t in the TV. He’s standing right next to the set on its low shelf and looks at his soldier with an air of mild disappointment.

“You failed your mission.” Pierce says, with an edge to his voice that is made of sharpened steel and promising of indescribable punishments. The Soldier backs up, knocking against the couch in the process. The piece of furniture scrapes backwards across the carpet rather than him losing his balance; he is that strong. He doesn’t want to sit, either, his legs straight and unyielding as if electric currents flow through them. If he sits, he knows, he’ll be strapped back to the chair and then it’s only a matter of time before they break out the machine and pull him out through his screams until there’s nothing left that’s human. There is fear, cold and clawing. It flows through his every vein like ice. Pierce shakes his head with an expression that borders on boredom, like he’s tired of going through the same rigmarole time and again to keep his prized weapon primed. “You know what happens when you fail. You know the consequences.”

It’s not a dream, he knows he’s not asleep or caught in a flashback. He’s perfectly aware that he’s still standing in your living room, the cat locked in a stare down and the TV still running. He can even still smell the steaks and veggie stir-fry you had for dinner and hints of your perfume on the couch. The problem is, Pierce is as real to him as any of it. It’s made even more surreal by the slightly younger Pierce in the TV declining his Nobel Peace Prize.

You had only gotten up for a minute for a quick toilet break and to get some more water to drink. He’d been nodding off to sleep, eyes drooping and head sagging until it almost rested on your shoulder, despite the decent distance he still kept from you while sitting. You heard Becky’s hiss just as you refilled the water pitcher in the kitchen. You quickly rounded the corner, finding your guest standing in the middle of the room, drawn up to his full height. You could see the tension in his back even from where you stood. He was staring at a spot right next to the TV set. A very much empty spot. You mentally add ‘hallucinations?’ to your amateur diagnosis and advance, figuring, for some reason, that it might be a good idea to turn off the TV. Sensory overload or something along those lines. The screen dies just as the reporter explained the depth to which the former World Security Council Secretary Alexander Pierce had been embroiled in the recent HYDRA scandal. Becky sprints away like a furry red cannonball, but stays poised at the other side of the room, far away enough to be out of imminent danger, but close enough to leap into action should the need arise. His stance is that of a hunter, cool, calm, collected and ready to strike. It’s only his eyes that belie the impression. Wild with unbridled fear, they flicker over you for a fraction of a second before returning to the empty spot beside you. It occurs to you, once again, that you have absolutely no idea how to handle a situation like this, and it’s your own cluelessness that causes you to be afraid.

You’re standing right next to Pierce, looking distinctly worried. No small part of him prays that you’ll keep your distance; with the Soldier at the helm there is no way he can control what he’ll do. It’s like his brain is short-circuiting into autopilot and all he can do is watch, strapped into the passenger seat of a crashing car.

“I could order you to kill her right now.” The apparition of Pierce sneers smugly, “There’d be nothing you could do about it. You’re so weak; following orders is all you’re good

for.”  
No. Nononononononono he would never hurt you, he wasn’t that person anymore ( _person?_ A venomous voice sneers in his head, not Pierce, someone much older from longer ago, _person?! You are a dog at best, HYDRA’s own faithful little attack dog, nothing more_ ). Pierce’s own sneer deepens, as if on cue, and his head inclines only a fraction towards your troubled face.

“Finish her.” He orders simply, as if he’d asked his PA for a coffee. The Soldier springs into action immediately, leaping over the coffee table, his arm swinging in a wide arc, enough force behind it to take off a head. You react by cowering on the floor, dodging the blow that went narrowly past you and retracting all your limbs until you’re no more than a little ball. It happens too fast for a sense of fear to really register, and you peer up through your arms to see him standing there, heaving deep, distressed breaths, the fist that sliced through the air next to you still clenched tight and dimly reflecting the light of the reading lamp.

All in an instant, he can feel his hands again and the apparition of Pierce is gone as if he punched it clean out of existence. You are cowering on the floor, glancing up at him with wide eyes.

The first thing he did once he had control of his body again was to bound out the open window, up the fire escape and onto the roof. You stay put a moment longer, dropping your arms and sucking in a few gulps of air. You hope his mad dash ends on the roof of the apartment block and that he won’t take off Assassin’s Creed style across the adjoining buildings. You need answers. Even more, you sense that he absolutely shouldn’t be alone right now. Willing your heart rate to slow down you shakily pick yourself up off the ground and begin your ascent of the fire escape.

He pulled himself up on the roof with shaking hands and promptly collapsed on his knees, retching and heaving against the last warm rays of the setting sun. His skull feels like it’s splitting open down the middle, the pain making his vision blur. But he still feels Pierce’s eyes boring into him, still feels the dread of being powerless and trapped in the confines of his brain, his body no longer his own. He has no idea how he managed to change the direction of the blow, it was close enough. Had you not ducked you would have been seriously injured, which frightens him most of all. It’s this dread that propels him forward, making him crawl across the roof pitifully until he comes up against the protruding air vent exhausts or whatever that thing is.

In retrospect, placing yourself right in front of him without any means of defense with only a low coffee table between you probably hadn’t been the brightest idea. While you may have been able to fight him off before, he was fully healed by now and could likely rip off your arms if he set his mind to it. Then why, exactly, were you doing the same thing again right now? Your fight or flight reflexes were kinda rubbish, it has to be said, especially when it comes to the flight part. Any sensible person would made for the proverbial hills, yet here you are, squatting down on the still heated surface of the roof in front of him as he holds his head between his hands and rocks himself back and forth slightly.

“Hey, you wanna tell me what the hell just happened?” your voice is gentle as always, but insistent. He’s not getting out of this; then again he’s not supposed to. On the other hand he can’t tell you really, because he doesn’t actually know, doesn’t understand. He has never been so divorced from the Soldier before, hasn’t recognized the asset (or himself?) as a separate entity in living memory. Granted, his living memory doesn’t exactly reach that far back, but one gets the point. It’s confusing, more than everything else in his life, which is already pretty damn confusing. Confusing like the fact that you come to him again and again, time after time after damn time. You shouldn’t, he’s dangerous, he knows this, at least. One of the few memories he has and has been allowed to keep is that of rooms full of heavily armored people training their weapons on him. He is erratic. Unstable. He is dangerous and deadly and must be contained.

“Why are you here?” he rasps after you’ve knelt there long enough to lose the feeling in your legs. He makes a good point, you have to admit. Still, you feel your hackles rising at the unspoken insinuation that you wouldn’t be, that you’d abandon him like you had been abandoned.

“I don’t give up on people. That’s not the kind of person I am.” You say firmly and reach for his hands, but he pulls them away. You stifle a sigh, reminding yourself to be patient and that his reaction has nothing to do with you personally. For a moment you consider pressing him about the incident that just occurred in your living room like you had originally planned to, but decide against it for the time being. Instead you stand and stretch your numb legs, wincing as the blood rushes back into them. With another wince, you plop down next to him, leaning back against the vent and stretching your legs out in front of you. He flinches away even though there’s almost a foot of space between you.  
“You shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t be anywhere near me.” He ground out thickly. His head was in his hands again, palms pressing against his temples forcefully, until he suddenly dropped his metal hand like it was on fire. He let it fall on the concrete and looked down at it disdainfully, lips pressed into a harsh thin line. You could see the metal fingers trembling as the last few rays of daylight reflected off of them.

“You feel guilty. And not only for what just happened, which was, by the way, not that bad. You had some sort of episode, but you snapped out of it.” You observed pointedly. He hung his head low again, refusing to meet your eyes.

“I’m a monster. I should burn in hell.” The speed at which he spits out the words is the only indication towards his inner turmoil as his voice is once again flat and blank, as if stating an obvious and indisputable fact. You made a vague, frustrated noise.

“You disagree.” He states, looking up again at last. You meet his gaze steadily.

“Personally, yes.” You reply simply, in that same matter-of-factness, “I don’t think you should be held responsible for any of it, but this isn’t about me. If you feel you have to atone for what HYDRA made you do then so be it. If that’s what it takes for you to work through this then that’s what you should do. As for the hell part, I think you’ve been there for quite a while - still are, actually. Maybe it’s time to leave.”

He stared ahead at the by now completely dark horizon, expression masked by the shadows of the night. You hugged your arms around yourself tighter and shuffled infinitesimally closer to him, trying to stay warm. He seemed to take note of it but at least he didn’t flinch away. Still, it was getting rather chilly up there on the roof.  
“Speaking of leaving, perhaps we could take this back inside? It’s getting kinda cold.”

“Inside…” he echoed hollowly, knitting his brows together and squinting as if to pierce through a bright light, even though it was dark, the streetlights far down below barely reaching up for more than a dim glow.

“You want me to go back inside.” His frown deepened and he chewed on his bottom lip in contemplation.

“Yes.”

“You don’t want me to leave.”

“Not particularly, no.”

“You’re not throwing me out?” he finally lifts his gaze to yours, searching your eyes while the crease on his brow looks like it’s about ready to take up permanent residence there.

“No.” you replied, holding his gaze steadily. Eventually it was him that broke off the little stare down by running a hand over his face with a deep groan. He shakily pushed himself up and stood with hunched shoulders for a moment, regaining his balance. Then he stuck out his hand to you to help you up. You gawked at it for a moment, astonished, but took it and pulled yourself to your feet with a small triumphant smile.

“Just so we’re clear, I knew what I was getting myself into. I knew it those few weeks ago, and I know it now. Also I deeply resent being doubted, just so you know. And now let’s go back inside, I’m really getting cold.”

He almost smiles for a moment, drawn features softening ever so slightly, but then his brain fires another thought at him and it’s gone.

“You said ‘what HYDRA made you do’”, he starts, turning abruptly, “How would you know they made me do anything. I could have all been me, all of it.” His eyes turn to searching you, half distrust, half fear. You meet his gaze squarely, communicating that you have nothing to hide.  
“If that were the case, would you be so troubled by it now?”

He frowns, pressing his palm to his temple again. You suspect he’s experiencing pain whenever he does that, but he refused the aspirins you offered him on a few previous occasions. Slowly, and like it’s taking him a lot of effort to string the words together, he speaks again.

“It was me, but …they told me I had to, that it was the right thing. Everything they told me – it made sense somehow, and it was all I ever had to go on. I wasn’t programmed to question, and when I refused to comply they… they…” his last words hung in the air heavily, his voice breaking until he couldn’t go on. You fought down a wave of nausea imagining how that sentence might have ended.

“I’m no expert but that sounds an awful lot like brainwashing to me.”

It was too much, that lost, broken, utterly miserable look he had. You took a tentative step towards him and gently wound your arms around his waist, rubbing his back soothingly. He stiffened immediately.

“Wha- what are you doing???” he asked, sounding slightly panicked.

“A hug. I’m giving you a hug.” You answered, your voice muffled against his chest. His body didn’t become even a fraction less rigid. “You can tell me to stop if it makes you uncomfortable.” You went on, making to pull away (reluctantly, he was comfortably warm and it had gotten even chillier in the meantime). Your movement was obstructed hesitantly when his right arm came up to loosely wrap around your shoulders.

“No, it’s… it’s nice,” he admitted, finally allowing himself to relax, though he still kept his left arm hanging limply by his side. “I’m just not…used to this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No more Agent Carter :'''(  
> holy shit that finale tho - it was last week and I'm still crying  
> how are you coping? (pls tell me your methods I am in need)  
> well, at least Agents of SHIELD is finally back^^  
> also: Special Guest Star Secretary Pierce. *growls and curls around Bucky Barnes protectively*


	12. Traces

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today is Bucky Barnes' birthday yo!  
> \- why am I telling you this? Certainly not because it'll be kinda important for the story in a bit...  
> _||||||||||_  
> {_________}  
> ^this is supposed to be a cake. with candles.  
> I suck at this emoji stuff
> 
> Am debating posting two chapters for the occasion, you can bribe me with comments

Skye was less than pleased with being sent away yet again, just when the action was about to unfurl. Really, Coulson and May had grown more and more withholding, and she didn’t like it one bit. If this development persisted, she would have some very angry, impassioned words for them. With a frustrated huff, she turned around, coming face to display with her phone that told her there was another voicemail courtesy of you. Skye instantly felt very guilty. She’d been meaning to call you, she really had, but mission had chased mission and somehow she’d never found the time until it had become close to a year without you two being in contact. She’d never gone anywhere near as long without talking to you in all the twenty years you’d known each other. And it wasn’t like she had nothing to tell, quite the opposite. Gulping heavily, she listened to your voicemail, then pressed the call back button and waited for the line to connect with her heart beating uneasily in her chest.

\---

Your roommate was resting, seeing as the previous episode had completely depleted him. Actually he all but collapsed, not even making it to the floor but instead curling up on the couch for a change, head just a few inches shy of resting in your lap. You placed a blanket on him and dared to gently thread your hands through his hair when he didn’t stir at Becky cat cuddling into his side. It tore at your heart, the way he was so obviously starved of even the simplest human touch yet too wary to seek out what he needed yet. Perhaps he didn’t even realize it was something that was missing. You jumped when your phone rang, shooting a worried glance down at the sleeping man, but found yourself relieved when he didn’t wake at the sound.

“________?”

“Skye!” you exclaimed, momentarily letting your elation at hearing your friend’s voice again get the better of you. However, you reined the sentiment in, determined not to let her get away so easily. “I can only hope you have a good excuse, like ‘I only just escaped from a gulag on a self-made raft’ or something like that.”

“Something like that.” Skye echoed thinly. You could hear both a smile and unshed tears in her voice. Looking down, you found your mysterious amnesiac still soundly asleep. Smiling fondly, you began a long overdue conversation, always making sure to keep your voice soft and quiet.

You were almost certain Skye wasn’t even supposed to let you in on even half the stuff she told you now, but you felt she needed to let it out by the way it was just pouring out of her and you let her. It wasn’t like you’d go around snitching on your best friend. Still, it was no small shock to find out that she’d spent the last year or so working and training for SHIELD.

“Before you knew it was actually run by a fascist cult bent on world domination, I hope.”

“Yes of course!” she replied, affronted.

“How’d they get you to anyway? I seem to recall a lot of rants about faceless menacing government organizations out for our civil rights and whatnot.”

“You see, the thing about people who deal in secrets like they do is that there is just so much more beneath the surface, so many things you or I could never even dream of!” you snorted softly, looking down at the still peacefully sleeping man on your couch. You could imagine quite a few things actually, seeing as your horizons had recently been more or less forcibly expanded. You briefly wondered whether you should tell Skye that you had the Winter Soldier here with you, since she assured you they were definitely the good guys and were probably looking for him, but decided against it. You couldn’t break his trust like that, not when he was only just starting to open up to you. Instead, you would put the matter to him and let him decide.

“So what exactly are you even doing now? Hunting down HYDRA?” you questioned.

“Pretty much, yeah.”

“And what about that Winter Soldier guy? Should I be worried? That was here in DC after all.” You felt a bit bad for being so roundabout, at the same time praying that Skye wouldn’t notice that you had ulterior motives for asking that particular question. The man in question shifted lightly, a few strands of long brown hair falling over his eyes. You brushed them away tenderly.

“Well, we’re not out for him specifically. To be honest, the guy has pretty much dropped off the grid completely. It’s like he just up and vanished into thin air. I don’t think he’s in the DC area anymore, but you shouldn’t take any chances, maybe get an extra door lock. You still got that baseball bat?”

You would have laughed if you hadn’t felt so guilty. There were things she wasn’t telling you either, you justified yourself. Besides, you couldn’t just hand him over. He needed help, and lots of it. You couldn’t possibly anticipate what SHIELD might do to the traumatized, broken man who had been made into the Winter Soldier.

“Listen, I gotta go now.” Skye said apprehensively before you had the chance to ask her anything to that effect. “It was good to catch up with you though. I miss you loads.”

“Okay, just don’t let it grow into another year before I hear from you again. Maybe answer when I call, or, if you’re on a mission or what it is you people do, at least call me back right after, okay? Because I really miss you too, you know.” You replied, now struggling to hold back a few tears from spilling.

“I will.” Skye said solemnly, “Promise!”

“You better!” you half-sobbed and then the line disconnected, leaving you with a sleeping ex-assassin and more questions than you had answers to.

\---

Heaviness is what he remembers most, not the rush of icy wind or the image of Bucky falling, becoming smaller and smaller until he was swallowed up by the whiteness, not the noise of the train - there had been a weight that settled itself in his very bones, so inhumanly heavy that for a moment he thought he might fall, too. Until the numbness makes way for a flash of searing rage that blossoms quickly and spreads instantaneously. Zola is still there and he's gonna pay. Steve had plucked himself away from the gaping hole in the train's side, picked up his shield and caught up with Gabe. Together they'd grabbed Zola and hoisted him back up on the ridge where the others were waiting. Steve distinctly remembers how Gabe had peered into the space behind him for a moment, waiting for Bucky to emerge with a snappy remark as he always did, until that day when he didn't. It was much the same with the others, none of them mustering up the courage to ask the obvious, but when Zola had dared open his mouth Steve had socked the goblin-y little man in the jaw and no one stopped him. There might have been subtle cheering, even. Monty had snarled something at the scientist when he'd tried to complain, in that dangerously flat tone of voice that meant he was absolutely livid and just waiting for an excuse to break a bone or two. After that it was all mechanical, the short trek back to their camp (short, then, constituted anything under two days' worth of trudging), where they'd tied Zola up like a ham and left him in the custody of the local partisans they were cooperating with. The understanding passed between the men without words - they would have done the same if it had been any other than the Sarge, too - and Steve had asked one of the locals if he would be their guide when they descended into the ravine. Now, it was a fair assessment to say that the men of the Howling Commandos weren't exactly accomplished mountaineers. It took them the better part of three days to get back and down the snowy slopes. There had been a storm in the meantime, delaying their departure from the camp for a day, so by the time they'd reached the ground and started combing it had been close to a week since Bucky's fall. No one dared say it but there wasn't exactly reason to hold out hope to find more than his body, but they silently agreed that it was the least they owed him - bring him home to his family, bury him properly, like the hero and friend and brother he is, was, is. They searched the area meticulously. By the end it felt like there was neither a stone nor a snow heap left unturned, yet all they found was a small piece of dark blue cloth, with an embroidered wing on it, just big enough to cover Steve's palm and with blood spattered around the lower edge. Later, when they had finally made it back to headquarters with their prisoner and gone through all the necessary debriefs and reports, Colonel Phillips wouldn't even get so far as to select the stamp that said _'Deceased'_ to mark Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes' file, the six remaining members of the Howling Commandos protesting ever so ardently until he marked it _'Missing in Action'_ instead just to get them to leave and maybe start grieving.

 

Steve barely heard the voice calling them in for their appointment, and had to be nudged back to attention by Sam.

“You okay?” Sam asked.

“We were so close…” Steve whispered, looking down the corridor that leads to the room he was in not so long ago. How could he have been in the same damn building as Bucky and not know it? Sam refrains from commenting and steers him inside an office with a firm hand on Steve’s shoulder.

Doctor Agramonte was a short, still rather young woman who refused to be star-struck by Captain America seeking an audience with her.

“You realize that this information is confidential, don’t you? I can’t just go around giving out my patients’ particulars to anyone who asks. Even if you were law enforcement and had good reason to I would still need a warrant or something like that.”

“We do understand that, really,” Sam said warmly, turning on the full charm offense on the poor young doctor, who proved reluctantly susceptible to it. “But within of what you can tell us, we’d really appreciate it. It’s very important that we find these two. They might be in some real danger.”

“It’s not that I don’t believe you, personally, I mean obviously recent events are proof of your integrity, Captain Rogers, but these rules are in place to protect the patients. So unless you can convince me beyond a doubt that you having this information is better and safer for Mr Reed than not I cannot help you. I’m sorry.”

“Mr Reed?”

“William Reed. That’s what Miss Carroll said his name was. Said they were cousins. Frankly, I’m not buying that, but there’s only so much I can do.”

“Those aren’t their real names.” Steve pointed out. “I know for a fact that’s not his name and a Jessie Carroll doesn’t exist, we’ve looked into it already. Please, we need to find that woman!” Steve was becoming agitated again. What if the mystery woman was HYDRA? What if she meant Bucky harm? Not something he could risk, not now.

Dr Agramonte gave an exasperated sigh, then looked to Sam. “Honestly, I’m mystified you even have to ask. I thought I’d seen you have coffee with her a few times.”

“Who? Me?” Sam asked, dumbfounded. He racked his brain for alternatives, but the only person who came to mind was you. “She told me her name was ________. Are you sure it was the same woman?”

“Very sure. She came by every single day, between around five thirty and six.”

Steve made to say something, but a look from Sam shut him up. A hasty ‘Thank you for your help, Doctor Agramonte’ and they were off, Sam not stopping until they were both back in the car.

“Please tell me you got her number.” Steve said hollowly. Sam shook his head sadly.

“Nothing, not even her last name.”

“So we’ve just run into another dead end.” Steve assessed hopelessly, glowering at the dashboard in front of him.

“Not necessarily.” Sam argued, making a mental inventory of every conversation he’d ever had with you. “Come on, Watson, time for some deductions!”

Steve shot him a skeptical look, which Sam good-naturedly ignored.

“Firstly, the doc said she came by each day around 5.30 to 6. That suggests she has an office job, and relatively close by. Within driving distance I’d wager, which means she has a car and therefore a driver’s license. We can work with that. She knows quite a bit about medicine, but she’s doesn’t work at a hospital or clinic, ergo, we should look into medical companies in the area.”

“You make it sound so easy.” Steve complained, still unconvinced, fists clenched in his lap. He wanted to go where Bucky was right now, this very moment. He wanted to find a time machine and go back two weeks and run down the hospital corridors until he arrived at his room. He wanted a clear route. Again, he felt, they had come away with more questions than answers.

“I know you think this isn’t going to help us, but it’s actually a big step forward. We know he’s probably okay. We can reasonably assume he’s not with HYDRA again. And we have a trace.”

“The woman.” Steve supplied darkly.

“Yeah,” Sam agreed, “________. We find her, we find him.”

“You don’t even know if that’s her real name!” he groused before deflating visibly, “Do you think she could be HYDRA?”

Sam considered this for a moment, consulting his instincts, then shook his head decidedly. “No, absolutely not. You know, there are decent people out there, good people who help where they can. So, we look for the woman who likes to make obscure references to medical history, falsifies official paperwork and probably works in one of the medical companies in the Bethesda area. And we know what she looks like. Well, I do.”

“Obscure references to medical history?” Steve questioned weakly, having given up arguing for the time being.

“Yeah, come on! It’s not even that obscure to be honest. W. Reed? J. Carroll? Jessie? William? That’s too much to be a coincidence. She definitely got those fake names from the Yellow Fever Commission doctors.”

Steve looked at him with unveiled confusion, making Sam groan as he started the engine.

“Seriously, Steve. Walter Reed, of Army Medical Center fame? James Carroll? Jesse William Lazear? That’s not even all of them, in fact our good Doctor Agramonte fits right in with the pattern. Have you really never heard of them?”

Steve gave a non-committal shrug, prompting a mini-lecture that lasted the entire ride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Old friends finally reconnect, some Steve/Howling Commandos feels (because yes, they totally went back, they did, they DID), and Sam being an adorable clever medical history nerd. If you are, too, you might wanna look up the mentioned doctors. Their story is almost as cool as their names. Then again, if you are, too, you probably won't actually have to look it up


	13. Brewing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is anyone still reading this? It's just that I'm getting kinda discouraged here...

It was nice to have someone to come home to again. It was even nicer since you found that you actually quite liked him. In your mind, you regarded him as a friend. And your roommate was slowly becoming talkative, you noted with delight. The two of you settled into a comfortable rhythm, you going to work and feeling somewhat less bad about leaving him alone all day, him doing all sorts of menial chores, insisting that he owed you and it helped him to stay busy and focus his mind. And in any case, when he ran out of things to dust or wash he set to binge-watching (mostly) Star Trek and petting Becky cat. You had him hooked. And when that all that failed to satisfy he set to your own, private, two-shelf library. He went through it all in a month flat, ironically taking a special liking to your collection of Cold War spy novels, so you carefully breached the subject of getting him a library card for the nearby community library, which was well-stocked and within walking distance. The first volume he brought home from there was an original language edition of Dumas’ ‘The Count of Monte Christo’.

“Didn’t know you knew French.” You remarked, mentally filing away the fact.

“Neither did I.” he answered with a non-committal shrug, engrossed in the novel. “They have quite a large foreign language section. Who knows what else comes to light.” He sounded almost cheerful. He discerned that he was also fluent in Russian and German, which fit with what you’d been able to find out about the Winter Soldier from the leaked files online, as well as Latin (of all things) and got along passably in Italian.

Over dinner, you’d talk – you about work, he – when not about the latest episodes he’d watched or book he’d read – about the meagre things he thought he remembered. It was never much to go on, and most of that was pretty gruesome, but at least he was opening up some now, not bottling it all up inside like before. You counted that as a success. All in all, you found he was doing really well.

Of course it wasn’t all sunshine and progress. Nightmares plagued him more often than not. He still flinched at every sudden movement or loud noise. He was in some amount of pain pretty much constantly - his head mostly, sometimes phantom pain in the arm he had lost (he would end up picking absently at the scar tissue as soon as the feeling passed) - and absolutely adamant about not taking anything to lessen it. He claimed it was no use and that he’d been drugged more often than anyone would care to count. You thought it was also a way of self-castigating for you could tell he blamed himself for the things he’d been made to do as the Winter Soldier. Above all there was little to no sign of remembering his name or indeed any clue to his true identity, before HYDRA had taken him and made him a weapon. You still thought that there must be someone out there looking for him, someone whose aim wasn’t to tie up loose ends (HYDRA, what use could they still have for him? You reasoned with a shudder) or make him stand trial for crimes he wasn’t truly guilty of as far as you were concerned (if not SHIELD then certainly some or other government person, in fact there were politicians all around calling for the elusive Winter Soldier to be brought to justice). You put the SHIELD question to him, but he was understandably loath to deliver himself into someone else’s hands when he’d only just escaped HYDRA’s clutches. You promised to try and find out what you could from Skye when the two of you next spoke.

Though he was opening up more he was still mostly withdrawn. You were only just scratching the tip of the iceberg of that man’s mental issues but you did your best to reason him out of it whenever he fell too far into the darkness. Like when this happened:

“I am not a good person!” he spoke quietly, but hotly. A long-suffering sigh wrung itself from your throat. How often did you have to go over this? You hated those HYDRA people more with every word of self-loathing that left his mouth.

“You did the laundry.” You deadpanned, unsure of what your argument was here. Apparently he didn’t see the connection either, judging by the befuddled look he gave you.

“I mean, something tells me bad people don’t do laundry,” you began to elaborate, gaining some small idea of where you were going with this, “Not that evil people don’t wear clothes; I mean …I just don’t think that someone who was not a decent person deep down would bother to go through the hassle, especially for someone else. Same with the dishes; and also I mean the cat adores you, obviously, and they say animals are good judges of character, so…” you forced yourself to stop babbling as you felt your cheeks heat up. What an inspiring speech, truly riveting, how could this not convince him, how had the high school debate team not come clamoring for you, you thought sarcastically.

To your surprise he had a bemused expression on his face. Bold onlookers might even have described it as something akin to a smile.

“Still odd?” you huffed, running a hand through your hair absentmindedly.

“Kinda.” He replied, definitely smiling now. You should probably be grateful for that, it’s not like that was something that came easily to him, or happened a lot, not that he had plentiful reasons to go about his life smiling - which was a terrible pity because, one, everyone deserved to have as much reason as possible to smile as far as you were concerned, and two, his smile was nothing if not lovely, even as small and restrained as it was now, and …you quickly excused yourself before the barrier between your thoughts and mouth had a chance to break down.

His eyes followed you until the bathroom door clicked shut behind you, the bemused ghost of a smile still in place. He wasn’t quite sure about your words yet; he supposed they made sense in a way, though he had only meant to repay you in some way for all the help you were giving him. It had really been quite self-serving actually, as doing those menial chores helped him focus his mind and feel at least somewhat useful. He was interrupted in his train of thoughts when you re-emerged from the bathroom with an alarmed expression.

“If you’re truly so dangerous maybe you could rain down some metaphorical fire and destruction upon the gigantic spider I just found in the bathtub.”

“… Spider?” he deadpanned, taking in your wide-eyed terror while you held the bathroom door closed as if the beast might jump and devour you if you let up.

“Sorry for the lack of originality.” You scoffed irritably, quickly lunging away from the door when he padded over and opened it, casting a discerning glance inside.

“It’s not even that big.” He stated bemusedly, a small smirk playing around his lips. You crossed your arms defiantly.

“Fire and destruction, if you would, please. And it’s absolutely gigantic, it probably transported here directly from Australia.”

“How would it have accomplished that?” he asked, clearly amused, his voice echoing ever so slightly inside the tiled room.

“Wormholes.” You declared in a tone that suggested that this was of course the next logical assumption.

 

It was almost two weeks before you heard from Skye again, but since that was a definite improvement to before you were pleased. She reached you at work, just as you were about to head out for your lunch break. Deciding you could just this once forego your midday workout, you picked up.

Skye and you had still so much to talk about. She told you about the disastrous turn of events involving someone named Grant Ward, immediately making you want to hit the man with a shovel. In the family jewels. How dare that piece of HYDRA scum treat your Skye that way! You also probed her about SHIELD, trying to glean what you could about how they would deal with the Winter Soldier should he decide to give himself up to them.

Shortly before you would normally return from your stint in the gym, Pam poked her head in your office with the message that there were two men who wanted to speak with you.

“I have nothing scheduled for today.” You insisted dourly, checking your calendar to make sure. You really didn’t.

“Say their names are Finley and Sternberg. They’re not business partners or anything.” Pam informed you, which didn’t exactly serve to make you more inclined to admit them.

“Well, what do they want?” Finley and Sternberg, huh? You caught on at once and knew immediately that those were fake names. Fake names reeked of intelligence services or the like. Hell, they could even be HYDRA (in which case you especially prayed they wouldn’t stick around to abduct you from the parking lot or something). You didn’t know how they could have possibly found you, but held fast to your decision to protect your nameless roommate as best as you could.

“They didn’t really say, only that they’d like to speak with you.” You sighed irritably, looking at the huge pile of work waiting to be done that lay precariously on your desk. You still had ten minutes of your lunch break left and you were in an important conversation with your closest friend on top of your little Winter Soldier situation. You didn’t need this.

“Send them away.” You ordered curtly.

“Um …are you sure?” Pam asked hesitantly. You crossed one arm over your chest, since the other was still holding the phone to your ear, but she got the general idea.

“They don’t have an appointment, we don’t know who they are and they can’t even be bothered to say what this is about. I have better things to do with my time. If it’s that important they can make an appointment.” You said with finality, knowing full well your calendar was full for the next two months. “If they really want to make an appointment, push it as far out as humanly possible. If they refuse to leave, call security.” You added, also saying to Pam that unless there was a Code Red (fire), Code Black (bomb warning) or Code Gold (surprise visit from CEO and/or owner of the company) she wasn’t to bother you again for the rest of the day.

\---

Once they were off the premises of Stark Medical’s Washington branch, Steve let his frustrations break free with every curse he had ever learnt.

“I don’t suppose there’s a way to hack into Stark’s personnel files?” Sam theorized, “I mean, all we need to confirm whether or not it’s her is a photo.” They had wisely decided not to draw more attention than necessary to themselves by asking around who liked to use fake names and shelter wanted fugitives, instead opting for a subtle reference with the names they used for cover. They’d counted on the person they were looking for to make the connection and reveal themselves by some or other telling reaction. Sam took out the list they had compiled and made a note next to your name. They still had around two more narrowly printed pages to go through.

“We can try again another time, maybe call ahead. Maybe ask Sharon to hack her calendar, only as a last resort of course.” He suggested since really, the person they were looking for might just as well be any other on those two pages. Seeing as the alternative would be hanging around here for hours until you got off work, Steve sighed deeply, relenting to the fact that continuing to check out the other names might be a more productive way to pass their time. Unless that yielded any results, they would get back to you, he promised himself.

\---

To your great relief, no one was waiting for you with chloroform (did people actually still use that?) or any other means of subduing and you made your way home undisturbed. Dinner was uneventful, and after a quick shower you joined your co-habitants on the couch for a relaxed evening of half-hearted attention to the TV and, at least in your case, full-hearted attention to pampering yourself a little.

You were halfway through with doing your nails when you noticed how uncharacteristically absorbed your non-feline roommate was in the TV program. You glanced up to see that it was a report about the recent events here in DC and heavily focusing on Captain America’s involvement. Something about this must be triggering something in his brain, you deduced. Something beyond the fact that he’d been made to fight Captain America, you hoped.

“You know, there’s an exhibit at the Smithsonian, the Air and Space to be exact.” You remarked as soon as the commercial break started, “I’ve been meaning to go for ages; just never got around to it.”

“When can we go?” he asked at once, his eyes more hopeful and eager than you’d ever seen them. You told him that you’d get off work early the next day, since it was a Friday, and then you’d go right after lunch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Filler Chapter. Not really that happy with it but alas, bear with. More momentous things are to come.


	14. Journey to the Past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a special thanks to mercyraine for the kind encouragement last week^^ it really helped me a lot. Unfortunately there are only three more pre-written chapters after this; chapter 18 is giving me quite a lot of trouble, though I have most of chapter 19 written out, thouch after that, only notes and snippets :( I'll try my best but some comments would definitely stir my creativity, just saying-

Friday rolled around with expectable routine. Since there was, thankfully, not much to do that required your immediate attention, you didn’t even have to make up some flimsy excuse for leaving early. You picked up some lunch on the way home, just something simple and sating, and went to change from your stiff office wear into something more casual as soon as you were done eating. You and your roommate were ready to head out and discover the mystery of Captain America before long.

You had noticed how he tended to hide behind his long hair, especially when outside. At home he would often use one of the hair ties you’d given him to keep it out of his face, but outside he used it almost like a shield. And today, with you two going out well into the public, where there would be masses of people around, you could almost feel the apprehension roll off of him in waves. But he’d wanted this, and he was going to push himself beyond his fear, which you found very brave.

“Here, take this.” You said, placing an old, plain baseball hat on his head. You had briefly contemplated wearing one as well, but then again you didn’t want to look too suspicious, or worse, like a pair of tourists. Also you were having an exceptionally good hair day. Those should never be wasted, ever. After checking that your purse contained everything you might need, you left for the museum.

He realized his mistake too late, only when he recognized the structure you were headed towards to be a train station. On the short walk there he’d been too caught up in his feelings of trepidation, peppered with a lingering suspense at what he might find out at the museum. His thoughts strayed to the man in the tri-color suit, Captain America, only to come to a stuttering halt when the train station came into view. It was his fault, too. In all the things he’d shared with you, this hadn’t been something he could bring himself to mention yet.

“What’s the matter?” you asked gently, noticing his shallowing breath and rigid posture. “Is everything alright?”

“I… the last time I was on a train didn’t end …very well.” He answered vaguely, inwardly trying to fight down his rising anxiety.

“Oh…” you said, immediately sifting through your memory to determine whether you should have known that. “We can take a cab. Would that be better? Parking’s a nightmare downtown, so I’d rather not take the car…”

“How long?” he ground out between clenched teeth, a sort of determination not be defeated by something as mundane as public transport coursing through him. Besides, cab drivers could be used to identify them, identify him – a bit of digging could lead a persevering pursuer right to your doorstep – not something he was willing to risk. He could do it, he needed to go and see for himself whether what the man had told him on the falling Helicarrier had any truth to it.

“How long would the train ride be?” you asked. He nodded stiffly. “Oh, let’s see… a good quarter of an hour on the Red, then we change to either of the connecting lines for another five or so minute ride, or take the bus from there. I think that’s the 74, but I’d have to look it up.”

He made the calculations in his head, willfully splitting the numbers to be as undaunting as possible. A little more than a quarter of an hour plus five minutes or slightly less. A total of about twenty minutes, in any case less than half an hour. The two of you had been standing in this spot for at least five minutes while he fought to get a grip on himself again. That hadn’t really been that long. Only four times as long as you two had stood there, and you would be with him the whole way. He could do this, he had to. He couldn’t let HYDRA win, not with metro train lines in various colors.

“Let’s go. I’ll manage, it’s fine. Let’s go.” He urged, with forced deliberation, before lacing his fingers with yours for support.

“Only if you’re really sure.” You replied, your tone leaving no room for argument. He took a deep breath and held your gaze for a moment before answering.

“I am. Let’s go.”

 

After that, the ride was surprisingly uneventful and the museum somewhat less than what could count as crowded. Still you somehow managed to lose him within minutes of getting there and locating the Howling Commandos exhibit. You’d only turned for a second, trying to get your bearings in order to discern where best to start. When you turned back around, the spot beside you was empty and you only just saw a flash of long brown hair under a nondescript baseball hat moving purposefully towards an engraved glass wall. Hot in pursuit, and with some grumbly admonitions on your lips, you wove through the throngs of people who had the infuriating talent to block the way just so that it took you some minutes to catch up with him. You were just about to chew him out a bit for wandering off when your eyes fell on the glass wall, which was engraved with some text and a larger-than-life portrait photo. Your eyes widened as they took in the features of a solemn-looking young man.

“What the actual hell?” you whispered, head snapping back and forth between the display and the man staring at it so intensely you wouldn’t have been surprised had he started burning holes into the thing. It was like a surreal live version of one of those ‘spot the difference’ riddles, one monochrome, one living breathing life flesh and blood, hair long here, short there, a generous dusting of scruff here, clean-shaven there, a notable difference in the eyes, though the expression retained enough familiarity. There was no difference in him now that could not be accounted for by the passing of time. The narrator’s voice drifted overhead. _‘Barnes is the only Howling Commando to give his life in service of his country.’_ Now this you had not expected.

So far he had not responded to you in any way beyond giving you an unreadable look. You kept your voice low so as not to draw attention from any of the other visitors. You couldn’t begin to think what would happen if a roomful of museum goers suddenly found a supposedly fallen WW2 hero in their midst.

“I’m not going crazy right?” you muttered thickly, “That’s you isn’t it?”

“Occam’s Razor would suggest…” he began mechanically, voice faltering for a moment, but he caught himself before you could interrupt. “The simplest possible explanation is the one most likely to be correct, so… yes, I think that is me. It must be.”

“Holy shit!” you replied, your head reeling as you struggled to process this new development. James Buchanan ‘Bucky’ Barnes. You dimly recalled a few lessons on Captain America and his Howling Commandos from your Middle School days. You had been in hospital when your teacher organized his routine ‘Howling Commandos Project Week’ but hadn’t Skye done some sort of presentation? Normally you would have helped her but your acute appendicitis prevented you. Other than that the photos in your textbooks had been very grainy. Besides, it’s not like you’d expect someone who’s supposed to have died some 70 years ago to come tumbling in through your window.  
James (Bucky? What were you even supposed to call him now?) had gone white and tense, massaging his no doubt aching temples.

“Let’s step outside a moment. You look like you could need a breather.” You suggested and went to gently guide him back to the corridor outside the exhibit. He followed you almost automatically until you passed by a screen-covered wall showing the transformation the super soldier Serum had wrought upon Steve Rogers. There he stopped dead in his tracks, eyes glued to the image of the wiry youth Steve Rogers had been before becoming Captain America. He’d told you of one recurring memory he’d had so far, that of a skinny little runt of a boy with blond hair, blue eyes and too much fire in his belly. He’d said the boy was important, that he was quite certain they grew up together, that he might have been a friend. You put the pieces together the same moment the words ‘That’s the boy from my memories’ left his mouth. In the light of the previous revelation, of course, this made sense. Still, it was a lot to take in the space of a few minutes.

And then the image changed to tall, fit, picture-perfect Steve Rogers staring stoically into the middle distance. You heard the breath catch in James’ (Bucky’s?) throat and felt him seize up beside you, his grip on your hand turning just tight enough to be slightly painful.

“No!” he breathed, voice thick with agitation. Of course! The Winter Soldier had fought Captain America aboard those Helicarriers, and once in the streets just the day before. HYDRA must have messed with his head big time for him not to recognize the other man then. But now, here, he realized that the man he had been ordered to kill and almost succeeded in doing so, and the boy he had grown up with were one and the same.

He didn’t offer any resistance when you led him outside and found a spot at the far end of the corridor where you would be reasonably undisturbed. A few people shot you worried glances, but you waved them off, positioning yourself so that no one would be able to see his face.

He had sunken down on a bench, face buried in his hands and trembling. You allowed him and yourself a moment before attempting to speak again.

“I don’t suppose it makes much sense to ask whether you’re okay.” Honestly, you were reeling a bit yourself. It was a lot to take in.

He gave a choked sound, not unlike the one all those weeks ago in the hospital when he’d first woken up again.

“We could go back home,” you suggested timidly, gently rubbing his shoulder in soothing circles, “That’s a lot to process. We can come back another time.”

“It’s a permanent exhibit.” You added uselessly after a long pause.

 

His head was bursting. It hadn’t been this bad since the incident that had you both end up on the roof, only this time the swirl of flashes of images, sounds, emotions, smells even was more vivid than any he’d experienced. It was almost as if the discovery here at the museum had unlocked something in his mind. He felt like he’d been trying to reach a box high on a shelf fruitlessly and now that it had finally tipped over the contents were threatening to bury him underneath their weight. It was painful, both mentally and physically. It was overwhelming; unorganized scraps of memories shooting through his brain – he needed to make sense of it all or it would drive him insane. The man whose name he still didn’t know – this explained why he couldn’t kill him, why he had needed to drag him to the shore as if the fate of the world itself depended on it. The man whose name was Steve (and didn’t that sound just so familiar? That name, always at the tip of his tongue like a word you know that you know but are just unable to grasp and vocalize) – he’d almost killed him. He was his friend. He hadn’t wanted to fight, that he remembered clearly because it mystified him to no end. Each move had been reluctant, aiming to inflict as little damage as possible. On the Helicarrier, the man (Steve, he repeated to himself like a mantra, he was never allowed to forget that name again) had aimed with each move to knock him out, not to take him out. And oh, he hadn’t realized then, the Winter Soldier had been unable to compute his target’s strange behavior, but he did now, at long, long last. That was the most painful part. He had hurt and almost killed Steve while Steve had done everything in his power not to harm him more than absolutely necessary.

He needed, more than anything, to go back inside the carefully arranged rooms of the exhibit and face it. He’d won against the goddamn train already, surely he could pull himself together enough for this. Through sheer force of will, he evened out his breathing and stood, looking down at your worried, surprised face as if nothing was wrong.

“I’m fine. Let’s go back inside.” You searched his eyes for a moment, the nodded mutely.

 

The two of you returned and slowly walked through the exhibit from the beginning, taking your time with every display case, every text, each and every screen.  
In one of the media show rooms, where old interviews were playing on a loop, you paused, taking seats in the back. The footage showed a very beautiful brunette woman who spoke with an English accent. He stirred in his seat next to you, leaning forward and furrowing his brows as he studied the woman on the screen intently.

“You know her?” you asked. His frown deepened. “Her hair was longer.” He said in lieu of a more direct answer. He glanced at the subtitle box, silently mouthing the information in contained: _‘Peggy Carter, 1953’_.

“53.” He repeated, louder this time yet still barely audible, “That’s almost ten years difference, yet she looks just the same – except for the hair. Her hair was longer when I knew her.”

 

He let out a small noise of frustration as his eyes darted between the wall with the names of all the Howling Commandos and the large mural showing their faces and uniforms. You were glad the crowds had thinned out by now; the two of you were almost alone in that part of the exhibit, save for an elderly security guard who stood at the opposite side of the room and appeared to be napping or at least dozing.

You gave his hand a reassuring squeeze, dimly aware that neither of you had let go since you’d found him by his exhibit wall. He gave you a sidelong glance before glaring back up at the walls.

“I know these men, I know that I know them, yet I can’t even place their names. These,” he jabbed a gloved finger up at the wall with the names, “mean nothing to me.” He let out that small frustrated noise again, gently pulling you along as he stepped over to the wall with the mural and the uniforms. The thing wasn’t even that he didn’t know them. When he read those names and saw those faces they definitely weren’t new to him, but there was that hollow feeling again. Like he ought to know what those names and faces meant, how they figured into his story, but his brain just couldn’t make the necessary connections.

He frowned up at the serious faces above, up alongside there with his own, rubbing his free hand over his temples and forehead as if to drag out the memories forcibly. He mouthed the names while his eyes darted back and forth, unable to connect them correctly. You could feel his growing agitation and suddenly you knew with the clarity of a crisp spring morning that he would snap or have another episode right there in the middle of the museum if you didn’t do something.

“Don’t worry about the names, tell me what you do know.” You said, bringing him back onto a single, manageable track. He stilled, starting to turn around to you but not completing the motion. You squeezed his hand again, your thumb rubbing small comforting circles over his knuckles, though he probably couldn’t even feel that through the metal. “I can tell you remember things. Focus on that for now. Tell me those – no filter, just say what comes to your mind. The rest will come in time.”

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath before opening them again and fixing them once more on the display.

“He was from Oxford, and he had an older sister who would send him fruit whenever she could. That didn’t happen often, but he would share everything with us, always.” He gestured up at the picture of the young man with the red beret and the thin mustache.

“He was the only one of us who was married; his wife fought in the Résistance.” His face was scrunched up in concentration, but his voice was calm and sure as he pointed at the dark-haired man on the far left.

“He was the only one of us with a college degree, from Howard University. He spoke at least three languages; I always thought he was probably the smartest among us.” He said, looking up at the portrait of the handsome young black man who you knew to be Gabe Jones. “Then again he voluntarily stayed with this band of loons, so maybe not.”

“He always wore this hat because it was the only thing he had left of his father. He said it was his lucky charm.” Your eyes followed his to regard the man with the bowler hat and the bushy blond mustache, listening intently. He took a stride to the side, tugging you along, purposely ignoring Captain America (still suit-less) and himself in the display, before coming to stand just in front of the image of the Asian man on the left side of the display.

“His parents owned a candy store in Fresno before the war. Jim and I were the only ones who could appreciate a good strong cup of coffee, none of that sugar and cream nonsense.” He turned to you slightly, a small smile tugging at his lips; he looked almost relaxed then. “He’d have been a big fan of your coffee, too.”

You grinned in response, before a small thought registered in your brain, causing you to knit your brows together in thought. “Jim?” you questioned.

“Huh?”

“You just called him Jim. ‘Jim and I were the only ones’ and so on.”

“I did?” he must not have noticed, engrossed as he had been in recounting seemingly random details just a moment earlier.

“Yeah.”

“…Oh.”

“Told ya!”

 

The sky was already darkening when you finally left the museum building, spending some time going through the other exhibits to try and seem more inconspicuous. You had spent the whole day there, and by now you could feel the exhaustion throughout your body, from your aching feet to through your tense back and neck muscles and up to your drooping eyes. The two of you left just before a security guard could approach you to politely usher you out. Once back out in the open, you both felt the hollowness in your stomachs, and made a small detour on the way to the train station to pick up some burgers and fries. You walked in silence, though a comfortable one, as you processed the events of the day, all its revelations and surprises. You boarded the train, which was thankfully rather empty and found a compartment near the end of the carriage, where you flopped down tiredly, stretching out your legs.

“So, what do I call you, now that you have a name again? James?” you inquired, taking a bite of your burger. It was a lovely, timeless name, though you found it a bit formal.

“If you want…” he was pensive, but not tense. It was a lot to compute, but he was handling it extremely well, you thought.

“Jamie?” No reply but the characteristic dubious look of mild disapproval, though you fancied it was becoming softer, somewhat more indulgent.

“Maybe later.” You mumbled to yourself, taking a sip of your milkshake and popping some fries in your mouth immediately after.

 

“James?” you addressed him some time later, after you had sat some time in silence on the train that was taking you back home. You gave his hand a gentle squeeze in case he didn’t react to the name alone. He looked startled for a second, still growing used to having his name back, like it took him a moment to work out that he was meant.

“Tell me honestly: are you okay?”

“Surprisingly yes. It was… it was good to have that,” he grappled for the right word, “Confirmation, I guess. Now I know he wasn’t lying.” Unlike HYDRA, you supposed.

“Captain Amer- Captain Rogers.” you sought to clarify. Just for the record.

“Steve.” He corrected decidedly, though the gravity of today’s discoveries did nothing to prevent him from attacking his own fries and milkshake with fervor.

You both fell silent after that, looking out the windows at the passing landscape of the city. You were processing the revelations this day has brought. Even if you weren’t actually as stunned as you probably should be, it’s still a lot to take in. You wondered how he – James, you reminded yourself – could seem so calm. You wouldn’t be, you supposed, after finding out that the evil organization who had manipulated and exploited you had also taken away the person you were, carving your personality right out of you and setting you on your best friend. You shuddered, trying to imagine what it might have been like, pictured yourself being sent after Skye – you couldn’t. The notion alone made you sick and you covertly shoved the rest of your fries over to James, your appetite gone.

“Can I ask you something?” you piped up, playing with the zipper of your jacket absently.

“Sure.” He mouthed between finishing his first and starting his second burger, for all intents and purposes disturbingly unfazed (ironic how the tables can turn). You inhaled and exhaled deeply before locking your eyes with his.

“Aren’t you angry?”

He raised an eyebrow, chewing on thoughtfully. You drew your knees up and rested your chin on them, your gaze never leaving him. “I mean with Hydra. If someone, anyone really, pulled half the shit they’ve done to you on me I’d be fucking furious. I’d want to kill them, and make them suffer. I’d want to burn them off the face of the earth.”

He grinned while stuffing his face with the rest of your fries. “Wow, you’re actually slightly terrifying. Remind me never to get on your bad side.”

You pursed your lips and shot him a little glare, regretting for a moment that you had given your fries away and thus were left with nothing to throw at him now.

“I’m just worried about your mental state, dipshit.” You grumbled recalcitrantly. He muttered something under his breath that was inaudible where you sat on the opposite bench and his grin faltered. You immediately resented yourself for pushing; it’s not like open displays of mirth came to him naturally. The fact that the viewing of several of your favorite comedies had elicited not so much as a smirk here and a suppressed snort there bore testament to that. You sighed and buried your face in your hands, rubbing your tired eyes harder than is probably advisable.

“I know, believe me, rationally I know I should be livid. It just… it feels so odd, like all that,” he motioned vaguely in the direction you had come from, towards the museum building, “like all that doesn’t even belong to me. I don’t remember most of it; just enough to know it’s real. The rest is foggy. It’s like the link is missing, like I can’t really connect. It feels like that was someone else’s life. How can I mourn the loss of something I don’t remember having?” He stared down at the wrapping paper and few remaining fries in his lap morosely. That kinda made sense, you supposed, and you untucked yourself and squeezed into the space between him and the window, drawing his head down to rest on your shoulder. He stiffened for a moment before relaxing against you, nuzzling into the crook of your neck with a soft sigh.

“Do you think I’ll ever get that back?” he asked you, his voice low and small. “Any of it? Or is it lost forever?” You wrapped your arm tighter around his broad shoulders, hugging him to you reassuringly.

“I don’t know.” You admitted solemnly. “Maybe it just needs time. I don’t know.”

 

It's a while after you've gone to bed and although he is exhausted his mind is too overstimulated yet to sleep. He makes a mental inventory of what he's learned about his past, himself, writes it down in his notepad and tries out the once familiar names. It's strange having a name of his own again after so long, and it doesn't taste quite right yet, like eating a familiar meal except that someone's tinkered with the recipe somehow. 'Bucky' especially doesn't feel right at all, and just thinking it sends a sharp jab of pain through his skull with such surety that he begins to theorize that HYDRA might have somehow found a way to attach a trigger to make him forget and keep him from remembering. They were able to make him forget who he was, so he doesn’t put it past them. Besides, he isn't that person anymore. James is good enough for now; Jamie seems too affectionate yet to belong to him, though his stomach jolted a little at how the name rolled from your tongue. He pushes that aside to deal with later. Any other manner of nickname or shortening doesn't ring true, when he thinks 'Jim' the image is that of the spunky Asian man that had been their medic, and 'Jimmy' rings no bells at all. Barnes is too impersonal. It reminds him of the army and the last thing he wants to be right now is a soldier. So James is good enough for the time being.

James Barnes, Sergeant, 32557038, Howling Commando, War Hero, Captain America's wingman and best friend. It feels like an old pair of shoes he has outworn, but of course it all makes sense now, why it had to be him. (Apart from the fact that for some reason he reacted well enough to Zola's serum, well enough meaning mostly not dying.) He understands now, that Bucky Barnes was a symbol perhaps more than he was a person, turning that symbol against itself in a perverted show of force was just so essentially HYDRA, and this is why it had to be him. There is a certain pettiness to ideologies, he reflects while dozing off to sleep at long last, a spiteful tendency towards one-upping their contrary to the point where the opposing side doesn't even have to be aware of it. He grits his teeth, briefly, before relaxing into exhausted slumber. When it comes to spite, he and HYDRA might well be evenly matched. Their first mistake was teaching him to kill so well. Such hubris must be appropriately repaid in time; this is a narrative imperative.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh wow, this turned out so much longer than expected. The tidbits about the other Howling Commandos are completely made up by me, jsyk.  
> Also, the National Air and Space Museum is such a great place, even if it doesn't actually have a Captain America exhibit. I've been there twice now and it's just really interesting. And what's also great is that there are no entry fees. You can just walk in (through security but still). I think it's really great when museums are free of charge, they should be everywhere.  
> Also I really did look up DC area public transport, and hopefully didn't get it wrong. Praise the internet for answering such questions, though if any natives have corrections I would be far from sour if you shared them; it's kind if difficult to get these things right from another continent


	15. (Re)Birth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a special thanks to Nano for the lovely comment and a friendly reminder that it only costs you 0 of any currency to leave one yourself, which, if you are enjoying a story, you should definitely always do

As you guessed, James hadn’t really slept the previous night, and all but passed out (though by now on the couch) in the early morning hours. In a way it reassured you to find this sign of his inner turmoil after your discoveries at the museum the day before. He’d seemed far too calm on the way back. You knew he still tended to bottle up his feelings, so there was a certain degree of relief to see that he hadn’t been as unaffected as he’d outwardly seemed.

Quietly, you got dressed and grabbed your purse and keys, writing him a note that you were just quickly picking up a few things from the store in case he should wake in the meantime. You didn’t want to cause him any more distress by making him wonder where you might have disappeared to on a Saturday morning. The small grocery run wasn’t even strictly necessary, but you had something that you needed to get and buying a handful of odd ends on the way was practical.

You returned a good hour later to find your roommate still asleep, Becky cat curled up on his chest. He starts to stir slightly when you set down your bags in the kitchen, waking slowly and with a deep yawn.

“Morning, sleepyhead.” You smile, poking your head out of the kitchen. He mumbles something that gets lost in another yawn. You give him time to wake up properly, busying yourself with putting your shopping away in the meantime. You do so until only one item is left at the bottom of the bag – the thing you originally went out for. Hearing footsteps approach, you quickly stuff it in a cupboard and move to make coffee.

“How’d you sleep?” James asks while plucking cutlery out of its drawer. His eyes are slightly bloodshot and have dark rings underneath them, but otherwise he looks comparatively alright.

“Better than you, I should think.” You reply sympathetically.

“Hardly an art.” He scoffs, but it’s good-natured enough. At least he’s not denying the trouble he still has with getting a decent night’s sleep. After he’s set the table as per usual, you tell him to sit and rest while you cook up some breakfast and seeing as he’s still yawning intermittently, he happily obliges.

You quickly prepare some eggs and bacon with buttered toast and carry that over to the dining table, where James looks like the task of scratching Becky’s tummy is the only thing currently keeping him awake, but he perks up the moment food and coffee are placed in front of him.

“Dig in.” you encourage him, before vanishing back into the kitchen for a second, going for the cupboard where you hid your purchase earlier.  
With a deep breath, you take it out of the plastic bag, smooth out the edges of the rather unspectacular wrapping paper and the bow you had the shop assistant place on it, and take the flat, rectangular box to the table, pushing it over to James’ side of the table nonchalantly.

“What’s this?” he asks with furrowed brows, food yet untouched.

“It’s a present for you.” You reply casually and start spearing eggs on your fork. By now Becky has peeked her head over the edge of the table, trying to find out why she wasn’t being petted anymore (and also probably to discern where the bacon smell came from and whether she could get away with stealing a piece or so). James expression is still one of complete loss. Suddenly you feel doubt rise within you, questioning whether this really was as good an idea as you thought the previous night while googling Bucky Barnes’ official life story on your phone while you couldn’t sleep. It had been late and you exhausted; that can impair a person’s good judgment, possibly. Well, it’s too late to back out now, so you power through. What choice do you have, after all?

“It’s a birthday present. Well, not quite a birthday present, seeing it’s May now, but since we didn’t know who you were until yesterday, well…” your voice falters, unsure of how to end. James stares at you, blinks once, then a second time, mouth falling open just a fraction. You can almost see the flurry of thoughts running through his head.

“Right, yes, birthdays,” he mutters absently. Another thing that hadn’t really occurred to him yet. “People have those.” He catches himself and drags his gaze from you to the wrapped parcel, reaching out a tentative hand but not quite daring to touch it.

“I don’t even know when mine’s supposed to be.” He muses, almost inaudibly. The display at the museum hadn’t gone into that much detail. He knew Steve’s birthday fell on an important date, though he wasn’t quite sure which one, only that it was some sort of holiday.

“March 10th.” You supply from across the table between stuffing your face with bites of toast. “I looked it up.”

“That was just before …we met.” He ends diplomatically. That day, the 13th, had also been the day that HYDRA had been exposed and the Helicarriers had fallen. The 10th had been when they unfroze him to hunt down the man with the eye-patch, the director of SHIELD. He grimaces slightly as he pieces this together, one hand automatically going back to bury itself in Becky’s warm, soft coat which earns a satisfied purr.

“Well, at least I can be reasonably certain my gift beats that.” You comment tartly, your temper once again flaring up at the malicious callousness that seems to be a trademark of HYDRA.

“You don’t have to open it now. Your food’s getting cold anyway.”

 

James watched you eat as if this wasn’t a big deal. He felt overwhelmed in a way that neither the breaking of his programming by Steve nor the previous day’s revelations had managed. He was barely coming to terms with being a person rather than a possession himself and the first thing you did upon learning who he used to be was to go out and get him a birthday present, after giving him food and shelter, your patience and your considerable kindness, all without ever asking anything in return, even knowing who he was, what he was, and you had not once failed to treat him like a human being. He gazed at his plate, all appetite gone as he was filled with an indescribable and very confounding cluster of emotions. He felt like he might burst from it all. He knows, in that moment, with unrelenting clarity that he would lay down his life for you without even a flicker of hesitation. Feeling his eyes moisten, he takes one more look at the neatly wrapped parcel with the perky bow, gently sets Becky cat on the chair next to him, and in a moment, he’s rounded the table and pulled you into a firm embrace. You have just enough time to let your fork fall on the plate.

“Hey…” you say softly, running a hand through his hair as he holds you, face pressed to your middle as he kneels next to your chair awkwardly. You feel rather than hear him trying to suppress a heaving sob and instinctively reach out your other hand to rub his back comfortingly. This reaction catches you a bit off guard, to say the least. He’s recounted horrific tales of torture and murder to you, and he’d been clearly affected by those, but this is the first time that you witness him cry and suddenly you feel bad for upsetting him.

“Hey,” you say again, even more softly than the first time, and you feel his arms tighten around your waist just a fraction. Another sob shudders through him, and by proxy of proximity you, and you feel moisture seep into your shirt as he gives up trying to hold back the tears.

“I didn’t mean to make you upset. I’m sorry.”

“No!” he chokes out, the sound muffled against your stomach and he clutches you tighter yet again. “They’re happy tears. Thank you. Thank you for everything. I …I don’t deserve any of this.” The last word is almost dissolved into another sob, and by now you feel like crying, too. At a loss for words, you can only stoop lower and wrap your arms around his quaking shoulders. You want to tell him that this is the very least, that no one could ever deserve the things that were done to him by HYDRA, but you can’t find the words. Becky makes good use of your distraction to help herself to some bacon.

\---

Steve paced along the sleek, glass-and-metal lobby of the commanding building, irritation rolling off of him in waves. He and Sam had interrupted their search in order to go after a strong lead that said the Winter Soldier had been seen prowling the streets of Brooklyn. At least it had looked like a strong enough lead, and even though they hadn’t really been convinced they’d still checked it out. It was another dead end, and now they were here to confront Hill about sending them on a wild goose chase.

“Oh, good morning, Captain Rogers.” A female voice calls from the elevators, making both men look up. Pepper Potts approaches with clacking heels and a mildly stressed-looking assistant trailing behind.

“Good morning, Miss Potts.” Steve replies politely, nodding another greeting to the assistant, who is wrestling with a laptop bag and a clothing sack, before introducing Sam.

“I didn’t know you were in the city. I hope this doesn’t mean that there are HYDRA elements here to worry about.”

“Not anymore, ma’am.” Steve forces a smile. Officially no one can know that they’re actually looking for the Winter Soldier, much less that he is actually Bucky. He half articulates the question in his mind already, but stops himself. It would take too long to explain why they would need confidential information on a random Stark Industries employee, and if that woman is really housing and helping Bucky he doesn’t want to cause her any trouble by bringing her to potentially unfavorable attention with her CEO. Besides, Miss Potts seems to be in a hurry, and so are they, since the receptionist is just calling over for them to go up to Hill’s office. They might just as well ask her. They hurriedly bid their goodbyes and stepped into the elevator.

\---

“So, what exactly is this?” James asked, turning the DVD box around in his hands. It had taken a while but eventually you’d both calmed down again, stuck the cold breakfast in the microwave and ate. Now he had unwrapped his present and didn’t quite seem to know what to do with it. Admittedly, the purpose wasn’t immediately obvious. He turned the case back around to take another lengthy look at the cover, which consisted of some artsy silhouettes in front of a stylized trench panorama and a bold-lettered title that simply said ‘Howling Commandos’, and in smaller letters ‘Extended Edition’. You fumbled for words for a moment.

“You know the other day when we came across that World War 2 series while zapping?”

“Band of Brothers.” He nodded. You’d watched the first half of an episode together until it had been too much for James and he’d reluctantly asked you to change the channel. You flinched a bit at the memory, doubting again whether the idea that had seemed nothing short of brilliant at half past four in the morning actually was.

“Well, this is like that, but about…”

“Us.” He finished your sentence, understanding beginning to dawn on him. “So that means at the beginning and end of each episode…”

“Yes.” You confirmed. “Except this thing is like eight years old so obviously it’s without…”

“Steve.”

“Uh-huh.”

James fell silent for a worryingly long time, just staring blankly at the DVD case in his hands. You wondered what might be going through his head right now and nervously pushed your hand through your hair.

“I got you the extended edition because it has the full interviews and then some.” You explained quietly. You had learned the previous day that the other five Howling Commandoes were all deceased by now; they had been elderly even when the series was produced. But even if he didn’t properly remember them yet, they had been his friends, part of his history. You had wanted to give that back to him as best as you could, but now you were really beginning to doubt that this had been a good idea.

“I can take it back if you don’t like it.” You offered meekly, averting your eyes and mentally castigating yourself.

“What? No! No, I do; I’m just a bit …overwhelmed I- Thank you, _________. This means a lot to me.”

“It does?”

He nodded and set the case down on the coffee table, swallowing thickly, then shuffled closer to you.

“Uh-oh, are you gonna hug me again?” you joked despite the fact that his arms were already in the process of wrapping around you.

“Most certainly.”

“You gonna cry again, too?” you teased on, returning the embrace with relief.

“Possibly.”

“Well, okay, that’s what friends are for.”

“We’re friends?” he asked, his voice muffled slightly against your neck. You mumbled a quiet affirmation and felt him squeeze you a bit tighter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh, how meta. thanks for the idea, Tumblr ^^  
> regarding the time reference: I found MCU-Bucky's birthday listed as march 10th (as mentioned a few chapters ago, for those of you who read notes), and Winter Soldier premiered on March 13th. Now the events of the movie last 3 days. My theory is basically that the things in the movies happen on the dates they are released (except obviously the main action of Cap 1 and Iron Man 3, but their frame situations, aka finding Steve in the ice and Tony telling Bruce his story respectively), so if you shift that around a little then Steve went to the museum exhibit on Bucky's birthday to see him, rather than to some empty grave that probably exists somewhere, and I am a heap of feels. You don't have to agree with this theory of course - I know in general it doesn't really fit with "Fury's Big Week" either, but I thought it fit just too well in this case and also I like to make myself cry apparently.


	16. Disabused

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A great big Thank You to Nano, Winters_Children, Pagina, zej (so long as you don't neglect your schoolwork; take it from someone who's already been through that grinder: that shit's important) and Avis Korbes ( I tried to look that up and it didn't yield any results? what am I doing wrong?) for the sweet reviews^^ -keep them coming ;)  
> sorry for not getting a chapter to you last week, but I was visiting my parents over Easter and did stuff like help my granny with her spring cleaning and thus kinda pre-occupied. I'll have much more time now that my new semester has started (are you reading this with the proper amount of irony?)  
> But do not despair - even if there'll be waiting between chapters I will never abandon this work. Promise. More than half of it is plotted out, some future scenes are already written; I just need to pull it all together. I have such big plans.

„So, I was wondering,“ you started as you plopped down on the couch, trying to sound nonchalant, „My office summer party is this Friday and I was wondering,“ you snatched a piece of pizza – self-made this time – from the plate quickly, more so that you would have something to hold on to than out of hunger at this point, „I was wondering whether you’d like to come.“

He gave you an uncertain look. “With you?”

“No, with Gladys from human resources. Yes with me you dummy.” He huffed indignantly in response, causing you to up your game and bring forth your arguments. “Come on, champ, you’ve been brooding and holing yourself up in here all week. It’ll be fun, I promise – there’s food and shitty pop music and lots of drunk people who can’t dance. They even have a bouncy castle, it’s all kinds of brilliant …and I don’t want to go alone.” You put on your most pleading puppy eyes and a beaming smile. “Please? I promise we’ll go if you don’t like it. The moment you say you’d rather leave, we’re out of there.”

“I’m not going anywhere near a bouncy castle.” He grumbled in resignation.

“We’ll see about that.” You smirked, eliciting a sigh.

“What will you even tell them about who I am?” he opted to change the topic slightly, hoping to steer it away from childish games.

“Oh I thought I’d introduce you as my housekeeper.” You teased. He gave you a long, blank look, but relented eventually, sighing dramatically and trying to hide a little smirk. You beamed right back at him, happy that Stage 1 of your plan had succeeded. James was slowly growing into being more at ease around people, but this was still a big step up from going grocery shopping or walking the short distance to the public library, or even the crowds at the Air and Space museum. Nevertheless you felt confident and turned to your piece of pizza with renewed vigor.

 

The following day, after cleaning and putting away the dishes from breakfast as per usual, James got dressed and made his way over to the library, seeking to exchange _Crime and Punishment_ for a new read. With the seasons slowly changing from spring to summer it was getting harder to hide the arm, but he could still get away with a light jacket. Becky followed on his heels like a puppy. It was strange how the cat’s presence instantly made him feel more at ease. As he walked, his thoughts turned to the upcoming party. He’d agreed mainly to please you, and to a lesser extent to challenge himself, but still the prospect of having to interact with a whole bunch of strangers was daunting. At least he wouldn’t have to worry too much about any of them being HYDRA, since every employee had been thoroughly screened in the weeks after the Helicarriers went down, and by one of the people who’d been with Steve no less, who was now head of security or something of the sort for the whole company. Honestly, he was impressed that you had gotten through without revealing anything about him.

Becky curled up in a large flowerpot by the library’s entrance, soaking up the sunlight and meowing a quiet go-ahead to him like a parent dropping off their kid at school. He gave a small, amused snort and pushed open the door.

The middle-aged librarian gives his hair her customary disapproving glance as she takes the book he is returning. It’s only for a second, and she never says anything, but he catches it nonetheless, and for some reason it bothers him again, as it hadn’t in the weeks prior. Perhaps it’s because of your office party. He knows he looks kind of unkempt like this and he doesn’t want to be the cause of you making a bad impression, but so far the mere thought of having someone get close to him with anything sharp is enough to send him flying. Maybe if you could do it, he muses as he wanders through the aisles and absentmindedly runs a hand through the shoulder-length tresses, in that case maybe he could manage. Part of him wants to regain that piece, too, even if it’s just a cosmetic, outward aspect of Bucky Barnes to have a proper haircut. HYDRA had been neglectful of him in that regard among many others; it really wasn't in any way practical to keep his hair that long and not even tie it back during missions, the only possible advantage of that being that it might obscure his face out in the field (then again he'd had the muzzle-mask for that). Except he could still feel uncaring hands grabbing it by the fistfuls, yanking his head back sharply at any given time and straining his neck nearly to the point of snapping, for any imaginable offense, or just because. If there was a way that didn’t involve scissors he would gladly take it, but he knew that wasn’t really an option. If he indeed did muster up the nerve to have something done about it he would have his hair short enough that no one could grab it, he resolved while crouching down to retrieve a copy of _A Tree grows in Brooklyn_ from one of the lower shelves. He takes the book and makes up his mind, meeting the librarian’s subtly challenging stare with what can almost pass for a smug grin.

 

“I don’t suppose you know how to cut hair?” he asks quietly over the dinner table, making you look up in surprise. The expression quickly dissipates into one of bemusement.

“You’d be surprised what I know and can.” You reply simply, making him smile a bit over his bowl of pasta.

“I’m beginning to think there isn’t much that you can’t do, actually.” You give a short, mirthful laugh, glad to see what a long way he’s come already since falling in through your window.

“You have to learn to get by when you grow up a poor orphan in San José. I’m not a professional, but I think I can make it look half-decent. Why’re you so eager about having it cut all of a sudden though?”

He drops his gaze with a bashful tint to his cheeks and mumbles something unintelligible into his pasta.

“What’s that?”

“I said, I think I ought to at least look presentable on Friday. Wouldn’t want to embarrass you.”

After dinner, James still insisted on having his hair cut, so you both repaired to the bathroom. You could tell he was still a bit nervous, but he sat down on the stool without hesitation, purring cat in lap. In any case, he was considerably more relaxed than he’d been those few weeks ago when you pulled his stitches.

“Honestly, I’m surprised you trust me to wave scissors around your head.” You said, readying yourself to make the first cut. You had his long hair gathered up in a ponytail in one hand and the scissors loosely grasped in the other, ready to stop in case he changed his mind.

“You’re the only person I trust.” James replied, suddenly solemn. He met your eyes in the bathroom mirror and gave you an almost imperceptible nod. You gulped.

“Wh-what about Captain Am- Rog- Steve?” you stuttered nervously, correcting yourself a few times in between.

“I barely know him. I know I used to, but what is that even worth now? I can’t trust someone I hardly know anymore.”

“You… we could try to get in contact with him. Might be good for you.”

He gave a non-committal shrug in response.

“He probably recognized you when you fought.” You pressed on, for once resolved not to give in. You felt this was important. James’ expression told you that your assumption was spot on. With a satisfied smirk you raised the scissors and snipped off the ponytail, eliciting a small surprised gasp.

“He’s probably looking for you as we speak.” You went on as if nothing had happened, handing him the strands of cut hair, which he took in a daze. You began to fashion his mop of dark brown hair into something resembling an actual haircut, muscle memory allowing you to settle into the activity without problems. Meanwhile James looked like he’d been put on pause and didn’t say another word until you asked whether or not this was short enough.

“…Sorry, what?” he focused back on the cat lying in his lap, momentarily confused as to why he was holding a chunk of dark brown hair in one hand.

“I said, is it short enough like this?”

He looked at the mirror, seeing a stranger and you affectionately running your hands through his hair, fluffing out the newly cut tresses. He blinked, then blinked again. He felt your fingers, felt the nails scraping lightly along his scalp, and yet it still seemed unreal.

He raised a hand to his head, fingers skimming lightly across yours as the realization finally hits home that the man in the mirror is indeed him and not a ghost from some long-forgotten past.

“It’s perfect, thank you. I can’t meet Steve.” He doesn’t even stop to breathe between the two statements, making you blink in surprise.

“Umm… why?”

He takes a deep breath, letting his hand fall into his lap and drawing Becky, who appears to be blissfully asleep at this point, closer like a child hugging a stuffed toy.

“He was my last mission. If I see him again my programming might kick in. I can’t risk that. I can’t hurt him again. I almost killed him the last two times I saw him. I already broke my promise…” his voice trails off, and he gets that distant look that tells you a memory is replaying inside his mind’s eye. You hold back a scoff and the urge to tell him that those ‘last two times’ were when he was still under HYDRA’s control, not to mention that the second of those times he managed to break free. Instead you ask softly: “What promise?”

“Huh?”

“What promise did you break already?”

“I had to promise his mother on her deathbed that I would take care of him. _‘You’re his best friend. If he’ll listen to anyone he’ll listen to you, James. You know how he is. Please try to keep him out of trouble. He has no one else left when I’m gone.’_ ” His voice had gotten more and more agitated with every word, and now he visibly deflated, falling silent with hunched shoulders. You tentatively wrapped your arms around him from behind, resting your chin on top of his head.

“I see,” you said, warmly, “I’m just saying you can’t hide forever. He’s gonna find you eventually; that’s how these things go.”

He scoffed, shifting unwillingly on his seat but clasped a warm hand around yours and gave a light squeeze.

“And another thing: you dragged him out of that river. _You_ decided not to go through with your mission, _you_ jumped into the goddamn Potomac River and _you_ pulled him out. Don’t ever forget that, okay?”

“I’ll try.” He promised with a small voice.

“And another thing-“

“Yet another?” at last a cheeky grin stole itself onto his features again, and you made a face at him in response.

“Yes, dipshit, _another_ another thing: when that moment comes I’ll be right there beside you.”

“Because that’s what friends do?” he questioned fondly, tilting up his head so he could look you in the eyes directly instead of just through the mirror. You grinned.

“Yes, because that’s what friends do and I am your friend.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, kinda another filler, feat. hair, pep talks and conspicuous literary references.  
> Goodness, I'm so terrible with titles though. So, you know, if the title is odd and doesn't really fit it's probably that.  
> Also San José. Yes solely because of the song. (and also because it's close to another place of slight significance, but more on that in two chapters time, though you're welcome to guess^^) Sorry you're from Cali now. Blame the people who wrote that song.


	17. Hurts to Remember, Hurts More to Forget

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some plot, some angst, some memory and some filler. and finally the appearance of one of my fav MCU characters. can you guess who? enjoy.

Steve was pacing. He did that a lot recently. If he really stopped to think about it he hadn’t been truly calm since seeing Bucky again on that street. It’s like an itch in his soul that he needs to walk off or scratch raw, that nagging feeling that he should have trusted his gut back then and looked for Bucky, looked harder and so long until he found him again. Of course there are all those rational explanations. There was no way anyone could have survived such a fall (except Bucky did). There was a war on, and HYDRA didn’t let anyone take breaks, ally or foe. The fact that the Commandos did go back and scoured the entire gorge, finding nothing but a piece of cloth (that should have told him; that should have made it so abundantly clear that Bucky was still out there, somewhere) – he had felt it, known it in his gut, in his heart, in his very bones that Bucky was still, against all odds and reason, alive.

“You’re gonna wear a hole in the floor and drop right down to the basement.” Sam informs him evenly, too tired to feign lightness of heart. They’d had a falling out with Hill about the lead that brought them to New York, didn’t even stay long enough to pry into Stark Industries personnel files, but luckily Sharon called. Her agent friends from SHIELD (Steve is still less than pleased about that but he can’t exactly go and confront Fury about it, not having a clue where the man is) had apparently dug up some intel of their own, concerning the Winter Soldier project, and the two of them are set to meet an agent this evening in an old diner in Queens.

The diner is less than crowded, and has an odd, oblong shape to one side that allows for Steve’s restless pacing between their booth and the restrooms. The walls are plastered with posters, photographs and newspaper clipping of varying degrees of yellowing. Rita Hayworth smiles down at them from above their booth; next to her is an article about a masked vigilante who seems to have a predilection for swinging across streets and directly above is – aptly enough – an old movie poster that promises to deliver the story of none else than Captain America and his Howling Commandos. Sam said it was from the 60s. None of the names or faces on the poster seem terribly familiar to Steve, but Sam assures him that Robert Redford, Paul Newman, Sidney Poitier and George Takei are each iconic in their own way. Steve scoffs at the poster and wonders what his friends who got to live through the war and after it had to say about that particular flick, though he has some idea.

The man who approaches them wears an easy smile and impressive sideburns. He introduces himself as Agent Triplett after checking surreptitiously that there are no prying ears nearby.

“I gotta say, it’s quite something to finally meet you face to face, Captain Rogers.” Agent Triplett says genuinely, “If grandpa was still around he’d have been there as soon as they thawed you out, but it was not to be.”

Steve nods politely, then stops and takes the time to actually look at the younger man.

“Oh goodness, you must be Gabe’s grandson then!” he exclaims, for a moment feeling almost happy, weightless. Triplett smiles again; this time it’s almost shy. He slides a thick manila folder across the table, explaining that a fellow agent came across an irregularity in some documents concerning another case, started digging and found what constitutes probably the entire mission log of the Winter Soldier since the Fall of the Berlin Wall.

“Where they kept him, how they moved him, who was in charge – it’s all in there. She dug through terabytes of data to compile this. In that regard the file leak was a gift.” Steve nods absently while rifling through the papers, names and places jumping out at him occasionally.

“What exactly are we supposed to do with this though?” Sam asks, taking a sip of his coffee.

“We have cause to believe that at least some of the bases listed here are still active. It stands to reason that the Winter Soldier is being kept at one of these locations.”

“If they have him, which we doubt.” Steve says, clapping the folder shut.

“Our own search suggests he’s still in the DC area.” Sam supplies, reaching for the folder.

“I see. And how strong is that lead?”

“Strong.” Steve decrees, somewhat obstinately.

“About equal to this.” Sam acquiesces, tapping the papers in front of him. Steve shoots him a glare.

“And is that going anywhere anytime soon?” Triplett pries further. Steve stays silent, the corners of his mouth drawn down in an unwilling scowl.

“Not really.” Sam admits, subtly kicking Steve under the table.

“Okay, my proposal is that we check out these-“ at that Agent Triplett points to two locations on the paper, “At best, we find him there, at worst we can take out some HYDRA agents. It won’t take more than a week. After that you can still go back to your lead.”

Steve’s glare has become downright murderous at this point, causing Sam to elbow the Captain sharply in the ribs.

“Steve,” he says with all the patience of a saint, “This is as good a chance to find him as the DC lead. Even if it doesn’t play out, by the time we get back maybe both you and Hill will have calmed down enough that we can find out about the other thing. Let’s just go and take a look at it.”

Steve forces himself to take a deep breath while the two other men look at him expectantly. The notion of working with SHIELD again doesn’t sit all that well with him, but if there’s a chance of finding Bucky he knows he’ll take it no matter what. Besides, it might do him a whole lot of good to kick around some HYDRA goons.

“Fine.” He grumbles.

\---

He was eighteen years old and knocking on a beige front door with flaking paint. His breathing was heavy, he'd run all the way here, and even though it was only two blocks away he was out of breath. His lungs were burning and his head was spinning and his hand trembled as he raised it to knock again, only to have the rickety wood disappear from under his knuckles and be replaced with Sarah Rogers' worried face.

"James?" she asked, bewildered. "Steve's not here; I sent him on an errand."

"I think I broke something, Mrs Rogers." he said, heavy-tongued. His mouth felt so dry, like it was filled with sawdust. Sarah Rogers, being an experienced nurse as well as a mother, immediately recognized that something was very wrong with him. She reached up to grasp his shaking shoulders and didn't let him stray from her gaze.

"Tell me what happened, James."

He drew a deep, shuddering breath, suddenly acutely aware of the pricking at the corners of his eyes and the searing, stabbing pain in his...

"I dropped the tool box on my foot, ma'am." he ground out, shifting his weight so less of it rested on his throbbing left leg. He'd run all the way here and now he gripped the door frame tightly enough to splinter it to keep from crying out. His father's tool box was an ungainly wooden thing, some 30 by 12 inches and weighed more than 14 pounds altogether. He had slammed it straight on his foot, he had almost felt the tiny bones in his toes shatter on impact, and then he had turned on his heel and come straight here.  
As he babbled on about this, Sarah maneuvered him inside cautiously and sat him down on the worn out couch. He hissed when she carefully pulled off his shoe to inspect the damage. He couldn't look, but the pain in his limb distracted him from the other thing at least. Really, he shouldn't even have been meddling with the tool box, he was just going to quickly fix the shelf in Jules' and Rosie's room before they got into trouble for breaking it. They were only eight and eleven years old, respectively. He wasn't... They didn't... They needed to be protected, didn't they? It was no big deal, really. Just a couple of screws coming loose, it wasn't even their fault. The damned old thing would have bailed soon anyway; that shelf had been with the family longer than he had, having been a wedding gift from some second cousin back in Indiana. They were just children. He was their older brother; it was his job to protect them. He will recall, very clearly, from that day on the music spilling from the record player at the time: _Brahms, A German Requiem, Death where is thy sting? Death, where is thy victory?_ Apt. His mother had loved the piece to bits before; after she broke the vinyl disc to bits over her knee. The children would flinch whenever they heard the verse. He would even - James that is, who was then still Bucky mostly and to most - come back to it as he himself lay, presumably dying, in a cold ravine somewhere in the Italian Alps. The words that had always seemed defiant to him then taking on a pleading note, one of utter supplication. But all this is just anachronistic digression from a boy in shock, the event in question only the starting point to a portion of trauma and idiosyncrasies.

He had this tendency to not be able to shut his mouth when he was upset. Sarah saw through it immediately.

"James," she said softly, after doing what she could there in the way of first aid, "James, tell me what happened. Normally your mom has you setting the dinner table at this hour. What's wrong?"

He was eighteen when he woke up that morning, but now he is four years old again and chokes back a heavy sob, and then another, until he can't do it anymore. Usually George Barnes would come home at 6.30 pm, an hour earlier if it was a Friday. But on this Friday there had been a knock on the door just a few minutes shy of half past four, on the other side of it had been two uniformed men who seemed vaguely familiar, with grave faces and kneading their hats in their hands. And they had said that they were so very sorry, that there had been an accident at the base, an explosion of stored ammunitions and... He can't bring himself to say it. The words simply won't leave his mouth. Had he hoped to find Steve here? He isn't even sure. Maybe he came for Sarah's motherly comfort, seeing as his own mother is currently too preoccupied to give it. Maybe he escaped because he didn't want his younger siblings to see him break down; he needed to be strong for them, didn't he? He can't repeat the words those officers said to them, but Sarah guessed what they were aptly enough, and now he's curled up on the Rogers' old couch and sobbing into her shoulder and everything hurts so much because his father is dead.

 

James starts awake so violently that Becky slides down from where she curled up on his stomach, meowing accusingly and hacking her claws into the blanket to stop her descent. It doesn’t help much, seeing as the blanket then slips downward with her, so she takes a small leap, claws scraping fruitlessly along the metal of his arm that is still warmer than usual from where she was draped over it. Still breathing heavily, James scoops the cat up and gathers her back in his lap.

His head doesn’t hurt quite as much anymore as it used to, and whatever poisons HYDRA used to keep him compliant have seemingly finally been drained out of his system, and with your wholesome cooking he’s quickly gaining back the weight he lost before. It’s probably mainly due to the serum but he’s healing, physically at least. His mind is still in large parts disarrayed, but his brain is mending, and that means memories are coming back to him more easily and completely than they used to.

He supposes he only remembered that afternoon, mere weeks before his high school graduation, because he’d been thinking about Sarah Rogers the other day, when you cut his hair. It doesn’t make the pain any less searing.

Thoughts of Sarah Rogers naturally lead to her son. He made her a promise. It was her dying wish that he look out for Steve. Even if he failed already it doesn’t release him from that obligation, he thinks. Dying wishes are sacred after all. If he’d been afforded one it would have been to see his friends safely through the war. Not that he needed an outside influence to want to look out for Steve, but it strengthened his conviction. With a sigh, James thinks back on what you said. He wants to believe that Steve really is out there looking for him, that he still cares about the friend he lost, then found only to lose again. Then again it only drives the guilt so much deeper, to imagine Steve zooming around the country, scrabbling for traces while he is here, warm and safe and cared for, with a roof over his head and a new friend.

Groaning, he sinks back down. The apprehension makes his heart pound uneasily. He feels, deep down, that it is only a matter of time until he sees Steve again one way or another. Just not maybe quite yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, I took some liberties here, but Bucky's father does die at some point (in the comics I believe? I really should get into a habit of doing proper research). I know that in Cap 2 he says that 'my folks wanted to give you a ride to the cemetery' line to Steve after Steve's mom died, suggesting Bucky's parents were both still alive at that point, alas, bear with. I'll just take 'my folks' to mean 'my family' rather than 'my parents' in this context. I think that scene with Sarah Rogers is worth it, then again of course I would.  
> as for the younger siblings, their names and ages are made up by me. Bucky's museum thingy said he was the oldest of four, so I ran with that  
> also Trip  
> #TripLives  
> in my heart, anyway


	18. Company Picnic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has given me quite some trouble for reasons I cannot actually name. Suffice to say that it's been basically nonexistant until about last week and also that it gave me so much trouble that it still isn't quite finished. On the bright side it turned out rather long, so I'm splitting it in the hopes of getting the rest doen until next week.

You had to say he really cleaned up nicely. Not to brag but the new haircut looked very nice indeed, as did the dark blue dress shirt he wore (that you got him among a few other clothing items, some that actually fit and didn’t remind you of your scumbag ex-boyfriend whenever you looked at them). As for the arm, he wore a glove to conceal the metal hand and the sleeves of the shirt and a light jacket did the rest. It’s not like anyone at the party would expect the Winter Soldier to turn up there, but better safe than sorry. You were going into the midst of a group of people who specialized in advanced prosthetics after all. It was better not to let anyone see, you figured.

All in all, you had actually doubted until the last moment that James would really come with you to the party. You could never tell whether it would be a good day or a bad one or a really, really bad one (last time that happened he’d needed to lock himself in the closet for hours, not even allowing Becky near him) – if he hadn’t felt up to a social gathering, with complete strangers no less, you honestly would have understood. There was no way for you to get out of showing up, being the actual branch manager, but you could have easily made up an excuse for leaving early. It wasn’t that you didn’t enjoy the yearly office summer party, but if James had needed you to take care of him that would certainly have come first.

But it seemed like that wouldn’t be necessary. James sat in the passenger seat of your car, looking out the window at the streets buzzing by absently. He seemed downright relaxed, almost cheerful even.

“You’re not really gonna introduce me as your housekeeper, are you?” he said more to the window than to you. You could swear you saw a small smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“I thought I’d just introduce you as a friend from school. We can’t use the same story from the hospital because HR knows I have no family, obviously. I think we can keep using the same name as at the hospital though, that shouldn’t be a problem.” You explained.

“Okay, so which school did we attend?”

“James Morita Middle and High Schools San José.”

His expression was too comical not to laugh, but you did feel a tiny little bit guilty.

“They named a school after Jim?”

“Yep.”

“I wonder what he thought about that.”

“He made the school board include the internment of Japanese-Americans during the war in the curriculum. In-depth. Even put it in his testament. It’s either that or rename the school.”

“Yeah, that sounds about right.”

“There’s also a James Buchanan Barnes Elementary School; I think it’s in Indiana.”

“How about that…” James muttered, looking distant. Each of the Howling Commandos had some sort of thing named after them, mostly close to where they had been from, and mostly schools of some sort or other. In fact you were pretty certain there was a Gabriel Jones Memorial Library at Howard University-

You snapped yourself out of your thoughts when you approached your company’s premises, where helium-filled balloons highlighted the way to the courtyard where the party took place.

“Welcome to Stark Industries Advanced Biomedical Engineering.” You said with a small flourish as soon as you had parked your car. James had been silent for the last minutes of the ride and now you found yourself wondering whether he was really as okay as he’d seemed.

“You can still change your mind. But I need to go in and say hello to everyone, you know; mingle a little.”

“Hmm? Oh, no, no it’s fine.” James answered you hurriedly, as if pulling himself from a daze. “Besides, I recall you promising me a dance.” He added cheekily and opened his door.

“Not really what I said, but maybe I could be persuaded.” You quipped back and climbed out of the car as well, smoothing out your dress after you’d locked it.

 

“You’re actually kind of important around here, aren’t you?” James stated quietly after you’d gotten through the first barrage of hellos and introductions without a hitch. You grinned. He hadn’t really asked you outright what you did and what your position was, but you supposed he had deduced a fair share from what you’d told him during the previous weeks. He knew by now that you had earned your degree in biomedical engineering at MIT, specializing in prosthetics but ultimately ending up in an administrative position. Except you hadn’t exactly said that you were basically the boss around here. Sure, Doctor Laing was head of research, but you were the manager of this small but important branch of the Stark empire.

“Yeah, did you not see everyone grovel before me?” you shot back and steered the two of you towards the drinks trolley. You wouldn’t have anything alcoholic seeing as you would still be driving later, but you were thirsty and since it was quite, if not uncomfortably, warm you supposed James would be, too.

He snorted in response, but failed to hide the grin spreading across his face. Against his firm belief to the contrary, he actually was enjoying himself a little bit. So far at least. He stopped short when you did.

“What?” he inquired, taking in your own, much broader grin and mischievous eyes.

“Technically,” you began, unable to ban the smugness from your voice, “You’re near the bouncy castle.”

It was almost comical how he hastily looked around, only to find the more or less solid wall of inflated green, yellow and red rubber not ten feet behind him, children keening in delight and all. He made a face.

“I’m not going on that.” He stated evenly, obviously expecting you to resist.

“Fine,” you replied casually, handing him your bag and stepping out of your sandals. Looks like the drinks would have to wait a bit longer. “Watch this for me then, will you?”

“Wait, you’re…?” you found his expression of befuddlement far more endearing than you probably should and struggled to keep your face from showing it. “Don’t you have a reputation to uphold or something like that?” he finished somewhat lamely. You smirked, stretching your shoulders in preparation.

“Oh, I do,” you replied sweetly, turning to walk purposefully towards the bouncy castle, “and it’s not the reputation of a killjoy.” And with that you sauntered off.

James watched you with a bemused smile as you catapulted yourself through the air, one hand at the hem of your dress to keep it from flying up and the other clasped around the hand of a little girl who couldn’t have been older than six. The little girl had bouncy pigtails and was waving at a slightly stressed-looking thin, wiry woman with equally thin, wiry glasses, who waved back with one hand and nervously twirled a pen in the other.

“I see Miss _________ is already exactly where I thought she would be.” A female voice came from his right, making him jump. He’d let his attention slip while watching you and was now trying to calm his pounding heart as he took in the slender figure of a sharply dressed woman a bit older than you with long, reddish-blonde hair.

“Oh, sorry to startle you – you must be _________’s plus one, since you’re holding her purse.” The woman smiled pleasantly, catching your eyes and nodding over to you, which prompted you to quickly say your good-byes to the little girl – Doctor Laing’s daughter – smooth down your hair and dress and make your way over. James’ smile did look a smidgeon panicked upon your arrival, so you patted his arm reassuringly before bracing yourself on it to pull your shoes back on.

“Miss Potts!” you exclaimed in astonishment, “I-I didn’t think you’d make it, with the board meeting in NY and all.”

She rolled her eyes, sighing a long-suffering sigh if ever there was one. You gave her a commiserating look.

“Please, none of that. If I wanted to deal with moody children I’d visit a high school. Dropping by here is just what I need now. DC Med throws the best summer parties – it’s common knowledge.”

You grinned at that, and then the expectant silence stretched long enough for you to realize that your boss was waiting for you to make the proper introductions.

“Right, this is my friend Will, from school.” You said, blabbering a bit about how he was currently visiting you and how could you possibly pass up a party? Pepper smiled along politely, making you feel even worse about lying to her.

“School?” she inquired, clearly intrigued.

“The Baseball team, to be exact.” James cut in, since you were obviously enough not the same age.

“Ah, yes! Well, ________ has definitely been a great addition to the company’s team. We absolutely destroyed Hammer Tec last year.”

“They call her hand ‘The Wrath of God’.” Someone cut in cheerfully, deepening the blush that had been forming at your boss’ praises. You looked to the source of the remark, finding your assistant Pam grinning cheekily.

“I’m no Mo’ne Davis, but I try.” You defer quickly, turning towards Pam.

“Please stop.” You told her in a small voice before going to properly introduce her. “This is my assistant Pamela Nguyen. Fashionably late as always.”

“It’s okay to say secretary.” Pam retorted, still grinning and sticking her hand out to James after greeting Miss Potts. James introduced himself with the fake name you were using, handling it much better than you, at least outwardly. Damn spy training! Miss Potts quickly excused herself in order to greet the employees she hadn’t said hello to yet, and you took the opening to ask James to get you some drinks. Pam pounced as soon as he was out of earshot.

“This new boyfriend of yours of much cuter than the fella you brought around last year.” she observed appreciatively, letting her eyes rake over James’ broad-shouldered frame. You almost choked on air.

“He’s not my …we’re not…that is not the nature of our relationship.” You sputtered, giving her a stern look despite the heat rising to your cheeks.

“Oh, so he’s available!” she chirped, delighted.

“No.” you said darkly, and somewhat too quickly. “Besides, I thought you preferred girls.”

“Honey, the whole point of this bisexuality thing is that either option can potentially make you go ‘Hmm nice’. My type is hot brunettes with an air of mystery.” Pam explained emphatically, making you giggle. That was certainly an apt description.

“Anyway, we’re friends. He’s having a bit of a rough time lately and he’s just visiting to get some change of scenery, you know, for therapeutic reasons. It’s completely platonic.” You explained afterwards. Pam arched a skeptical eyebrow.

“He’s still much cuter than that garbage can you brought last year.” She insisted, making you roll your eyes.

“Yeah, I know that _now_ , too.” Your last relationship and its spectacular failure wasn’t something you enjoyed thinking about. 

Pam gave you one last look, the kind that told you she wasn’t really buying it and would keep both you and James under close scrutiny for the rest of the day, before strolling off to chat with one of the veteran’s your company worked with, a young Lieutenant who you knew she had a giant crush on. Which made your earlier reaction all that more incongruous. You shook your head to rid yourself of the emotional dilemma your mind was slipping into. Yes, you’d wanted to bring James out here among regular people to show him that he wasn’t the monster or the machine he thought himself to be, but you had failed to factor into account the toll it would take on you to lie to all these people, even if it was just to protect him.

 

James returned before your dark thoughts could consume you any further. You gratefully accepted the drink from him and downed half of it in one go.

“In a strange turn of events, you are actually the one who seems nervous.” He commented drily, though he did look appropriately contrite after you gave him a long, pointed look.

“Sorry.” He murmured.

“Don’t be. I should be happy you’re so at ease; that was the goal. I just didn’t expect… I’m not a bad liar. I know it’s not the most charming quality to have, but that’s neither here nor there at the moment. Point is, I have little to no problem lying to strangers, especially authority figures.” He made a small appreciative noise, but you gave him a look signaling that you weren’t finished. You gestured around you at all the people filling the courtyard. “These are my colleagues, some of them I even consider friends. I just, I didn’t expect… I haven’t thought this through, and now I feel like a terrible person.”

You sniffled involuntarily, and James immediately drew his right arm around your shoulders in a warm side hug. It calmed you a little bit, the sheer fact that not only was he accepting physical comfort by now but also willing to give it himself. He made a soothing noise in the back of his throat, hand rubbing your upper arm comfortingly. You wiped your eyes surreptitiously.

“Wow, I feel worse about this than I do about caving someone’s skull in. That’s kinda messed up, right?”

“I feel like I should take offence about you asking me, of all people, that.” James retorted drily. It sounded a little forced, but you appreciated his efforts in trying to cheer you up nonetheless. It was mere weeks ago that he didn’t even smile, and now he cracked jokes of his own. If lying to your co-workers was needed to help his progress along then it was worth it, you thought, turning your face into his shoulder a moment to compose yourself again.

 

It was nice, standing there like that in your own little bubble, watching the people around you, socializing or otherwise having fun. After a while, you started commenting, tying the faces to the stories James already knew.

“And, of course, Doctor Laing.” You explained, pointing to the scientist who stood a few feet away with the little girl from earlier. She had been joined by her wife in the meantime, now led their daughter away to another of the stations that had been set up for the children. “I recruited her myself from Columbia when I was still working in New York, you know, after graduating.” James hummed along thoughtfully just as a very tall man with a pinned up right sleeve approached the small family with a genial smile.

“Uh-oh.” You said.

“What is it?” James asked, openly alert at once. “Who’s that?”

“Major Dr Weaver, our official army liaison. He’s great, but he can be a bit …over-enthusiastic. Marisa tends to be a bit jumpy, especially with how recent trials haven’t quite gone according to plan.” Indeed the scientist already looked a bit panicked as she struggled to retain an air of politeness. “Sorry, I gotta go stand by my head of research. You don’t have to come along if you don’t want to.” You explained quickly, already moving to take off in that direction. James’ arm slipped from your shoulders to lightly grasp your hand.

“Don’t know anyone else here, doll.” He murmured as he walked over alongside you.

 

You arrived just in time, it seemed, greeting both the skittish woman and the large, vibrant man with a cheerful: “Hey Doc!”

Marisa Laing looked utterly relieved upon spotting you. You shot her a reassuring smile. She wasn’t the most comfortable in large social settings. It wasn’t the Major’s fault, at any rate. For all his vivaciousness and impressive bulk – the man was built like a linebacker and the NBA’s best rolled into one; a veritable bear of a man with ebony skin – he possessed all the kindness of the proverbial Samaritan. He smiled broadly at you and James when you arrived, showing two lines of gleaming white teeth as he greeted you.

“Major, this isn’t a work thing. Take it easy. The future of prosthetics doesn’t hinge on this afternoon.” You scolded him mildly, which only resulted in his smile widening even further as he held up his hand in mock defense. Dr Laing used the time to excuse herself, scurry away and seek comfort from her wife.

“I swear I wasn’t going on about work, Miss _________.” He replied good-naturedly, throwing the arm around the shoulders of a young teenage girl who might have been seventeen or eighteen. “Have you met my daughter Maura?”

You had not, and shook the girl’s hand when she’d been introduced to you, giving her an encouraging smile. She returned it shyly, glancing up at James when you introduced him in turn, hand nervously pushing through her abundance of long dark curls. James’ eyes in turn were invariably drawn to the Major’s pinned up sleeve, though thankfully he wasn’t in any way obvious about it. In any case, Major Weaver and you carried the brunt of the conversation, James and Maura only throwing in a comment here or there. She was clearly shy in front of so many strangers and James was beginning to tense up a bit at your side. You’d have to give him some space to recuperate from so much interaction soon, but as of now he was still comparably alright. If he got critical you’d know; you’d agreed on a secret sign beforehand.

“Say, has anyone ever told you that you look a lot like that one actor? The one from that fairytale series you like so much, sweetie – what’s-his-name – he was in that World War 2 series as well.” Major Weaver was saying just now, looking from James to his daughter and back with an expectant expression.

“Sebastian Stan, Dad.” The Major’s adolescent daughter replied curtly, a blush rising to her cheeks, “He played Bucky Barnes in the Howling Commandos series. I thought _you_ ’d remember that, of all people.”

“I did, sweetheart, just not the name.” Major Weaver retorted good-naturedly, turning from his daughter back to James. “Yeah, you definitely look a lot alike. Has anyone ever made that connection?”

“No, sir, you’re the first.” James replied, fighting to keep his polite smile from slipping. You felt him tug at your hand slightly, tapping out an SOS on your knuckles, and that was your sign.

“Goodness, I’m starving!” you exclaimed emphatically, seeing James nod in your peripheral vision. “It was lovely catching up with you again, Major; and a pleasure meeting you, dear!” you said your goodbyes to the Weavers and maneuvered James towards the food, taking a turn between some tables to get him far enough away from the crowds that no one would approach you. 

“Okay?” you questioned after just letting him breathe for a while, “We can make our way home if you want. Just say the word.”

“No, it’s fine. I’m fine.” He smiled shakily. You weren’t quite convinced.

“I’m serious, James.” you said earnestly, taking his hands like so many times before now, “You don’t have to fake and suffer through it, neither for your benefit, nor mine, nor anyone else’s. I know you don’t like showing weakness, and I have a pretty good idea why, but…”

“Why?” he echoed flatly, as if he’d never really consciously thought about it. You gulped and dropped your voice lower, even though there was no one within earshot.

“Because _they_ would hurt you for it.” You stated, hatred for HYDRA flaring up like it was wont to do lately. “No one here is going to hurt you for anything.”

His eyes brightened gratefully at you, and he squeezed your hands gently.

“I’m okay, really. Besides, I promised you a dance. And what was that about food?”

You gave him an unimpressed look, letting him know that a more sophisticated mode of deflection was needed to fool you. He visibly deflated.

“I promise to tell you when I can’t handle it. Please, I just want to feel human for a while.”

“Promise?” you urged. It was one thing when it was just yourself in your apartment, but then again you’d never have brought him here if you’d had even the slightest bit of doubt that he wouldn’t be able to handle himself. James inclined his head in a small nod.

“Promise.” He said, somberly. You smiled.

“Let’s eat, then. They do great things with burgers here.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, I encourage you to bury me with comments^^


	19. Muscle Memory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone who commented or left feedback. I've been very consumed by my feelings and thoughts about Age of Ultron and procrastinating on my uni stuff, but you helped me write this nonetheless, so thank you again for your continued support^^  
> Sadly, the muses have been rather curt with me for reasons unknown, so sorry for getting this chapter up late, but it was missing a complete middle until about yesterday evening. (It's a bit longer than average to make up for that tho.) Writing is hard. Why is writing so hard...

They did great things with hot dogs, too, it turned out, as well as a number of other dishes. You tried a bit of everything, somehow ending up full even though you kept your portions small for that express purpose. James didn’t seem to have such problems, wolfing down serving after serving with relish. So much so that you felt compelled to point how that people might conclude you weren’t feeding him well enough.

“Or they might think your cooking’s just that bad.” Pam commented drily after plopping down next to you, receiving a friendly kick under the table in retaliation. The cute lieutenant she had in tow smiled apologetically, stretching out her legs – one flesh and bone, the other metal and plastic – with a sigh of relief. She was quite new to the group of veterans helping in the research and development and for all the apparent flirting Pam put in not yet familiar with her sense of humor. James also looked half ready to defend your honor, but you motioned for him to keep chewing and struck up a conversation with the lieutenant, who’d been a field medic before and now considered studying medicine.

“But then again, with the amazing work that’s being done here I’m not sure that this couldn’t also be the way for me.”

“Well, it’s not like there’s only one way. Doctor Henderson for example trained and then practiced as an orthopedic surgeon before whereas Doctor Vasquez came in through her work with robotics.” You said, gesturing towards another table where the two researchers in question were seated, engulfed in a heated discussion as usual. The lieutenant, whose name was Janice Kirby, nodded thoughtfully, fingers absently tapping her artificial knee under the table.

“Yeah, I’ve been looking at internships and such, trying to get a feel for what fits me. I have to admit that the engineering part of it all does intrigue me.”

“So long as you stay away from our rival companies…” Pam threw in, only half-joking. She was fiercely loyal to the company. _‘Our boss is freaking Iron Man, what more is there to say? I mean how can you even top that?’_

Janice promised that she would never, solemnly raising her hand. You giggled softly, and a small smile tugged at James’ lips.

“Sorry to break up the revelry. Do you mind if I borrow you for a moment?” Pepper Potts had appeared, her blazer already discarded and with a glass of something sparkly in her hand. She looked at you expectantly and you were half out of your seat when you caught James’ look. His plate was still half full.

“It’s okay.” You told him, giving his shoulder a reassuring squeeze when you stood. “I’ll be back before you know it, champ.”

He relaxed a fraction, managing a small smile and an even smaller ‘okay’. You mouthed _‘Be nice’_ at Pam, at which she looked mildly affronted, and turned to leave.

 

James must have zoned out for a moment while watching you walk away, because the next thing he knew the two women remaining at the table were talking about something completely different.

“Our favorite counsellor down at the VA is gone now, and Raj is taking it a lot harder than I thought.” Janice (‘call me Jan but _never_ Janie or anything like that’) commented nodding towards a man around her age a few yards off, who was staring into the middle distance and absently fumbling with his crutches while the food in front of him remained untouched. James made a sympathetic noise and continued to push his food around on his plate.

“It’s difficult to see him changed so much,” Jan continued, “He’s my best friend. I just want him to feel like he can be well again.”

Pam said something in response that he couldn’t hear over the sudden ringing in his ears. He felt like he was intruding, or at least that’s what he told himself to justify getting up abruptly and collecting the finished dishes with a futile apology. Getting rid of the dishes took not nearly enough time. He looked around, scanning the crowd for you. Unsuccessfully, which made a small wave of nausea and panic hit him low in the gut. He forced it down. _When getting lost or separated, it’s best to stay in place_ , a voice in his head told him. He trusted that voice somehow, and made an effort to calm his breathing. A quick perimeter sweep and he had settled enough to return to the table without arousing suspicion. Except when he arrived, Jan and Pam hadn’t yet exhausted their topic of conversation.

 “I mean, sure, we go through things. We go through things every day and some leave bigger marks than others but I don’t think that anything can really fundamentally change who a person is at their core.” Pam was just saying, giving him a half-smile in greeting when he sat back down.

“I’ve seen people become different though. I’ve seen them change first-hand. I’ve witnessed myself change, after the…” Janice had to pause for a moment to collect herself, then demonstratively tapped her artificial leg with a wry, humorless smile. “After this.” Pam stopped a moment, expressions stuttering across her face rapidly. It took her all of the half minute or so it took James to scan the crowd for a sight of you again to recover.

“Yeah obviously, that’s not what I mean. I’m not saying that trauma doesn’t have an impact. It changes you up to a degree, but if someone has a good heart deep down they’ll always have that no matter what they go through. Am I making sense?” Pam argued, and Jan weighed her head in deliberation.

“I think what you’re referring to is nature over behavior.” James chanced, not sure if he was allowed to butt into the conversation. He thought of Steve and the serum, and of Steve and the war, or what he thought he remembered of it anyway. The comment just spilled out without him meaning to. Both women looked at him a moment, obviously surprised. He blushed a bit.

“Or not. Sorry.”

“No, that’s …yeah, I think that’s kinda what I was getting at. Behavior versus personality, or, as you say, nature. They’re closely connected, but not the same.” Pam concluded, sending him an enthusiastic grin. Jan nodded thoughtfully.

“Yeah, that makes sense.” She conceded, throwing another look towards her friend, who was now engaged in a conversation with another veteran, looking a whole lot more there than he had some minutes before. “Things change how you respond, but they can’t erase _you_ , like as a person. I think I can live with that.”

She smiled at them both, Pam and James, gratefully and excused herself to join her friend.

 

“I’m gone for ten minutes you dive right into the deep, existential philosophical stuff. Wow.”

“It’s one of my superpowers, as well you know.” Pam retorted cheekily, making you laugh softly. You sat back down, James’ hand immediately finding yours under the table and entwining your fingers with an internal sigh of relief.

“So how do you two know each other again?” Pam interrupted what would otherwise have turned into some deep mutual gazing.

“S-school,” you started, clearing your throat awkwardly in that really cliché flustered way usually reserved for characters in comedies. “We were on the baseball team together.”

“You don’t sound like you’re from California.” She remarked, pinning James with her inquisitive gaze. He made a small flustered noise before answering.

“I …no, we …we moved a lot. My Dad was in the army.” That wasn’t a complete lie, even though James barely remembered much of that beyond the vague knowledge that they’d moved states a handful of times before settling in Brooklyn.

“Aww, so you’re reconnecting.” She concluded, somehow managing to make that statement sound suggestive. It might have been the wink. You gave a vague noise in response and sent her a warning look, which she returned with a shrug and the beginnings of a very smug grin.

Luckily that seemed to be all she was going to say on the matter. Pam was many things, but unnecessarily pushy and intrusive was blessedly not one of them.

And somehow, when you next checked your watch nearly three hours have passed and James is sitting by your side, eyes soft and a polite little smile curling his lips ever so slightly. While he wasn’t exactly what one could call gregarious he did interact with whoever you happened to be talking with, even cracking a little joke here or there. He actually made Miss Potts laugh; then again she’d been a bit buzzed at that point.

 

The sun was slowly sinking and the DJ let the last of his collection of 80s power ballads fade out.

“You promised me a dance.” He stated matter-of-factly, rising with a small smirk playing on his lips. The DJ fiddled a bit with his equipment and soon enough some swing music with a decidedly modern twist started sounding from the speakers. You took his outstretched hand and followed him the few yards to the designated dancefloor, where a good number of people were already at it, some more successfully than others.

“I don’t actually know how to do this. Go easy on me.” You murmured, hesitantly placing your free hand on James’ shoulder, feeling the metal shift underneath your fingertips when he rested the hand lightly on your waist.

“Don’t worry,” he replied softly, a mischievous glint in his eyes, “We’ll start slow and I’ll show you how it’s done.”

“Oh come on, of all the things to remember-“

“It’s muscle memory, doll, simple muscle memory.”

You meant to make a smart retort to counter that old-fashioned endearment, but then you were already moving, swaying gently along to the rhythm as James led. You got the hang of the basic steps pretty quickly, so by the third song you could actually enjoy the dancing part of dancing without frantically fussing over where to put your feet.

“You’re a natural at this!” James praised just as the DJ put on a faster song. You barely had time to reply before he tugged you closer, then spun you away only to reel you in again a moment later. You braced your hands on his chest with a gasp, barely having time to formulate a reproach until he dipped you, arm locked around your waist. Then again seeing how broadly he was smiling, you didn’t really want to. Your heart gave a little lurch when he brought you back up, swaying as the song faded out. His arm was still hooked loosely around your waist, holding you closer than before. The next song was slower again, so you left it at a mock reproachful _‘Warn me next time, okay champ?’_ , at which he merely grinned. You didn’t really know what else to say, so you were content with just letting the music flow through you, reveling in the sensations. No one had ever really taken you dancing before, excepting clubs, so this was a first. It felt nice to be held like this. Your fingers skimmed tentatively along James’ shoulder, tracing the progression from skin over scar tissue to metal under the clothes absently before coming to rest on his upper arm. You would probably never cease to marvel at this extraordinary piece of technology. With all that metal one would expect it to be cold, and it was, for the most part, but no more so than the skin of someone who had been outside in late fall or early winter without the proper attire. The surface warmed up quickly enough, and the internal mechanics gave off heat when used. Generally the joints were warmer than the rest, and the shoulder too the closer it was to his flesh. Through the fabric of his shirt and jacket, the only way to tell that the arm was artificial was by texture, the hardness of it. And even that was just a fleeting impression with how tenderly he held you. You were just pondering how much sensation it allowed when James spoke, startling you out of your thoughts.

“I t really doesn’t bother you at all, does it?” he said, lowly so as not to be overheard even though the dance floor was far from tightly packed.

“Huh?” you replied, ever so eloquently. He just gave a miniscule downward nod to his left in response. 

“Oh,  yeah, that…” you trailed off vaguely, collecting your thoughts. James hadn’t given much indication that the metal limb bothered him in any way, then again he wasn’t one to openly verbalize these things. You looked up, holding his gaze as you answered. “You’ve seen what my work is, who my colleagues are. I’m used to people having artificial limbs; it doesn’t bother me. Never has. What bothers me is that you were hurt so badly in the first place.”

He looked down, stunned by your heated confession. He made a stifled noise in the back of his throat, his arm tightening just a fraction around your waist. You decided to give it a moment before asking whether he was alright. He looked off to the side where Lieutenant Jan and her friend were swaying along to the music, holding onto each other tightly despite having to fiddle somewhat awkwardly with his crutches. He looked a lot livelier now, James noted while glancing at the young man. He let his gaze wander over the crowd instead of answering you, noting every missing or replaced limb.

“You never asked me about it either.” He said absently, taking in the image of Major Weaver slow-dancing with a woman who looked remarkably like his daughter except for the greying at her temples. “I’m not a fool. I know the technology could be of benefit here. It’s foolish not to take advantage of…”

You stopped short, losing your footing for a beat or two, before reminding yourself that it wasn’t his fault that his first instinct was distrust.

“Sweetie, you’ve been exploited for the last seventy or so years. That is not a tradition I am going to continue. That arm belongs to you and it’s up to you and you only what you do with it.”  You said decisively, cupping his jaw to make him look at you as you spoke. 

James looked back at you a long moment, feet slowly coming to a standstill until you were both just standing amidst the dancing people.

“That being said, I think it’s very telling that your first thought is how you could help people.” You added when the silence became too laden.

“It’s …I …if you say so…” he stuttered a bit, just as the song faded out and a new one started up, a faster one again.

“Okay, so how does this how dipping and twirling business work again?” you grinned shakily, attempting to dissipate the tense situation before he could burrow himself any deeper into his own head. He gave you a grateful look, his previous easy charm returning quickly as he gave you a smile that was downright rakish.

It was nearly an hour later that your feet started protesting too loudly to go on dancing. James practically escorted you back to one of the nearby tables before going to fetch you both something to drink. You were stretching your aching feet when Pam plopped down into the seat next to you.

“Are you sure you’re really just ‘friends’,” she said, making air quotes with her index fingers, “Because let me tell you there was absolutely nothing platonic about that dancing.”

You groaned, looked up at her self-satisfied expression, then groaned even more deeply. You were sure you hadn’t been any closer than Lieutenant Jan and her friend Raj. You scowled at Pam, debating a comeback and coming up short of any truly convincing ones, so you just told her to drop it. It did nothing to lessen her smug smirk, but you weren’t in any mood to deal with that and any explanation as to why she was _most definitely wrong_ would require too much exposition on your part, so you just groaned again.

 

By the end of the party, you were among the last ones leaving. You were too tired to even walk straight at this point and James had, surprisingly, quite enjoyed himself among all those normal people. Incidentally, you were also too tired to drive and tossed him the keys, missing by a few inches, shrugging in response, and yawning as you curled up into the passenger seat of your Dodge Avenger (company car, chosen specifically by Tony Stark himself after the battle of New York). James quickly snatched the keys from the car’s hood and got in; making sure your seat belt was buckled before driving off slowly into the dark night. By the time you both arrived at your apartment building, you were more or less fast asleep, leaving him to carry you from the car to your apartment. Grappling for keys and opening doors with you in his arms proved difficult, especially since you had somehow caught his right wrist in an astonishingly firm grip. Not by any means so tight that it caused him discomfort, but still tightly enough that he could not easily pry it off. You did not, for some reason, relinquish this grip at any point, leaving him awkwardly pinned by your side after gently depositing you on your bed and taking off your shoes. Waking you up again was a singularly hopeless endeavor, so unless he wished to break your hold by breaking your fingers (he did not) he was for all intents and purposes trapped. Sighing, and debating the floor as a viable alternative, he went to toe off his own shoes. You were not quite fully asleep yet, just too much so to respond much to anything, but with the tiny sliver of consciousness left you pulled him down onto the mattress next to you.

“_______,” he whispered, slightly alarmed, and tried to scoot away to a somewhat appropriate distance. Your grip on his arm didn’t budge.

“_______!” he said again, more insistently and more perplexed. Your fingers moved to intertwine with his, too quick for him to realize and seize the opportunity to untangle himself and flee. You shifted, bringing your bodies closer together, your faces near enough for your breath to tickle him. You dragged your bleary eyes half-open, gazing at him with a fond smile. He gulped thickly.

“Did you have fun, Jamie?” you drawled, thumb caressing the back of his hand gingerly. He gulped harder, leaning closer instinctively.

“Yeah…?” he hummed vaguely, finding it hard to focus when your face was so close.

“Good.” You murmured, satisfied. “Good night, Jamie.”

“Good night, _______.” He replied, wondering why his stomach felt so odd, as if something lived inside it. Something fluttery, at once light and grave, that made his heart do strange things.

“Good night, Jamie.” You repeated, so very softly, and suddenly he felt your lips as you pressed a tender good night to his forehead before closing your eyes and drifting off into a deep slumber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> quite happy with this, actually^^ well, mostly anyway  
> how 'bout you?  
> gentle reminder that it's always okay and very welcome to smother me with feedback, if you liked the thing  
> I'm especially curious to learn what you liked about the thing. Feel free to go into detail.  
> I mean if you don't like the thing you absolutely do not have to share that, though I would question why you're still reading this after 19 chapters then


	20. Hook

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for your kind feedback :) I can't even begin to tell you how happy it makes me^^

You woke up to the sunlight tickling your nose. James woke up stunned that he had slept at all, and slept so well at that, not a single disturbing image invading his dreams in the hours in between. It had been the first time in living memory. (The fact that he woke up without a face full of red-orange fur was also nice.) Your hands were still intertwined, and your bodies curled towards each other as if to shut out the world around.

Actually, you woke up first, finding yourself face to face closely with an uncharacteristically peaceful looking James, his lips slightly parted and breathing evenly. You couldn’t quite tell why you had latched onto him so vehemently the night before, refusing to put a name on your motivations in keeping him close, but sooner or later you would have to confront the fact that you had actually, despite all your spiteful assurances to the contrary, developed feelings other than friendship for him. _‘No I don’t.’_ You couldn’t deny it forever. _‘Watch me.’_ Deep feelings. Very deep and tender feelings. _‘Shut up.’_

“Thank you,” he spoke softly. You had not noticed him opening his eyes over your internal ruminations. “Thank you for refusing to give up on me.”

Now all you could do was stare at him dumbfounded, with his tousled hair and sleepy eyes and small smile and husky morning voice that sounded so sincere, wondering, briefly, whether it was actually possible for your internal organs to turn to mush because that’s what they felt like at this very moment.

“You’re …welcome?” you chanced uncertainly, completely unequipped to respond coherently. Your own voice sounded alarmingly odd to you.

“I mean it. I know I wouldn’t be here without you. I can never repay this debt I owe you. I just… I just want you to know that I’m grateful.” He raised your entwined hands to his lips, pressing a simple yet lingering kiss to your knuckles. You thought you could feel your heart temporarily lose its rhythm, skipping a beat or two in between, then rushing to return to an even pace. You moved up your free hand and used it to brush his hair out of his face before resting it on his cheek lightly. He leaned into your touch with eyes closed contentedly, reminding you very much of Becky cat as he did so. You were suddenly acutely aware of how close you were, your noses almost touching. He bit his lips nervously, a habit he’d picked up or rediscovered – you had no way of knowing which – over the last few weeks. You found yourself moved by a nameless, irresistible force to close the miniscule gap between you, pressing your lips on his.

Or you would have done just that, had not two simultaneous yet unrelated events disrupted your course of action. The one was James opening his eyes again, intense crystalline blue gaze holding you captive and making your breath catch in the back of your throat. The second was the sudden shrill ringing of your phone.

“Jesus H. Fucking Christ this had better be important!” you growled, breaking away and snatching the phone. Though part of you was glad for the distraction from what could have quickly turned into a very awkward situation most of you was not, and if this was someone from work calling you to ask for help in dealing with their own ineptitude you were absolutely going to bite their head off. It was the weekend after all.

It was not any colleague seeking to incur your wrath, but Skye. Informing you that she was going on a lengthy mission and wouldn’t be able to call for at least a week, probably two. Not exactly the kind of news you relished when the two of you had just managed to repair your relationship but since she was off making things difficult for HYDRA who were you to disagree? James made a soft noise of appreciation next to you when you said as much. Skye froze on the other end before speaking again, her voice sounding suspicious when she did.

“________, do you have a man in your bed with you? Please tell me you’re not back together with Mister Fucktrumpet the Cheating Bastard.”

“No-“ you said vaguely, half amused at the charming nickname for your previous boyfriend. “How do you even know I’m still in bed?” you then tried to deflect the rest of the question. She snorted.

“Please, it’s before nine on a Saturday. Where else would you be? Besides, I know your ‘I just woke up’ voice. Too well for it to be considered comfortable, actually. Let’s not get into that.”

“Yeah, let’s not.” You agreed hastily. “Well then, good luck on your mission, give ‘em hell, don’t get shot, report back in when you’re back, okay?”

“Will do. Have fun with your boy toy, ________. You deserve a few good…”

“Yes, bye. Love ya!” you interjected quickly and the line disconnected just after she said her good-bye’s back. You looked down at your now silent phone with mild affront.

“Punk ass kid.” You muttered with a smirk. “I took a bullet for her once, can you believe that?” James perked up, alarmed at once.

“What? Where? …How?” You waved it off.

“It was only a flesh wound. I already told you how our orphanage wasn’t exactly in the best of areas, right? Just a mugging gone south, no big deal.” You shrugged non-committally, pulling up the hem of your dress to show him the small, round scar on your thigh. He reached out his hand to inspect it, brushing his thumb over the raised skin lightly. His brows knit together tightly in concern.

“I’m sorry.” He breathed. You waved it off with a small laugh, but the sound caught in your throat when you realized that he was half-kneeling on the bed in front of you, warm hand high on your leg, and your faces just as close again as earlier when Skye’s phone call had interrupted you from probably making a damn fool of yourself. The heat rose to your cheeks.

“Waffles or pancakes?” you blurted out, forcibly tearing your eyes away from his gorgeous, soft lips and quickly scrambling off the bed before the situation could get any more awkward, or worse, lead you to do anything you might regret.

James snapped out of his daze, quickly retracting the hand that had been gently caressing your thigh just a heartbeat ago. What had gotten into him? He tried to put on a neutral expression as he stood up and straightened his crumpled shirt, purposefully avoiding your eyes. He mumbled that he would make pancakes and whether or not you wanted to shower in the meantime or after. You decided that a shower right now sounded like a really good idea, perhaps a nice cold one.

\--- 

Steve stepped into the elevator after Sam, subtly leaning against the back wall as it took them up to Maria Hill’s office. The mission with Agent Triplett, while successful in its own way, definitely in so far as anger management was concerned, hadn’t yielded any results concerning Bucky’s whereabouts. He was determined to pester Hill until she’d let them look through the Stark Industries personnel files and he was beyond caring about things like privacy infringements at this point.

“Capsicle!” a voice sounded as soon as the elevator doors slid open. Steve winced even before the owner of the voice could appear in the hallway, and as soon as he did, he began firing off a barrage of words that left Steve reeling worse than some of the shelling he’d experienced during the war.

“Christ, you look awful. When’s the last time you slept properly? Coz it doesn’t look like that was anytime this century. Hey Superbird!” Sam grinned tiredly at the remark, trotting behind Steve as he followed behind Stark down the hall. “How’d the mission go? Hope you kicked some HYDRA ass. I shouldn’t even know that. Guess you didn’t find anything about good ol’ Uncle Buck or you’d look happier. Not supposed to know about that either… Anyway, now that you’re here I need you to…” Steve zoned out after that, attempting instead to formulate a get-away plan that would be both swift and inoffensive, but before he could even open his mouth Tony had steered them both down a wrong turn and into a room that didn’t look like it had been intended to be a lab but ended up as one anyway. Steve sighed inwardly, glad that they’d showered and changed before coming here. He clutched the folder holding all their research a bit closer to his side as Tony began going into the specifics of some mechanism. He neither understood nor cared to try at present.

“Tony, we really…” he started, trying to sound like missing a few hours of incomprehensible technobabble was a genuine regret when the sound of clacking heels interrupted them.

“Tony!” Pepper Potts said, looking snazzy as ever in a tailored blouse and skirt.

“Pep!” the engineer beamed, immediately abandoning his machinery to greet her.

“Captain Rogers and Mr Wilson aren’t here to see you, Tony.” She scolded him gently. He gave her a look like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. To no avail, but you had to give the man credit for perseverance. Steve set the folder down on the counter, too tired to notice a handful of photos and notes slipping halfway out.

“We really should go. Agent – Miss Hill is waiting for us already.” He said, plaintively eyeing the half-full coffee pot on a sideboard some feet over. Sam behind him was less subtle, letting out a long yawn. Pepper strode over decisively.

“Don’t you worry about that; I already told her you’ve been whisked away to the engineer’s den. She’ll be here any moment.” She gave them a sympathetic smile, simultaneously managing to ask how their search was going while wordlessly motioning for Tony to pour them some coffee. Steve and Sam recounted their latest mission briefly, purposely leaving out the more unsavory parts.

“And no sign of Sergeant Barnes’ whereabouts? I was so shocked to hear that this was what is at the heart of your search, and only yesterday.” Pepper inquired, hands absently skimming across the countertop, slightly jostling the folder Steve had put there earlier. Steve took a sip of his coffee and shook his head sullenly. JARVIS patched through to let them know that Maria Hill had been delayed, breaking the flow of the conversation for a moment. Steve still looked to the ceiling reflexively whenever the AI’s voice rang out, and had done so again now. When he looked back he saw Pepper staring at an old photo that had slid out of the folder. She looked positively transfixed, tentatively reaching for the faded paper and pulling it out all the way. It was one of the last ones taken of Bucky before the war, some weeks after he’d come home from basic training but before shipping out. It showed him with the older of his two sisters in Mrs Barnes’ den, both of them smiling as they sat on the bench in front of the piano.

“Is that him?” Pepper asked quietly, voice oddly flat. Tony stopped fidgeting with a screwdriver and whatever piece of machinery he’d picked up sometime before and came closer, throwing a closer look at the photo.

“You look live you’ve never seen him before. Your dad must have had boxes full of photos from the war.” Steve remarked, noting the slight wince on Tony’s face at the mention of Howard.

“Yeah, he didn’t exactly put those up around the house.” Tony murmured, now looking more concerned with Pepper who was still peering intently at the photo.

“And the footage from DC wasn’t exactly a well of quality close-ups.” Tony remarked, sounding disgruntled. No doubt he’d applied every conceivable enhancing software to said footage, but apparently his efforts had been rather fruitless.

“And before you ask, textbook pictures are very grainy.” Sam piped up. “To be honest I didn’t really know exactly what you looked like before.”

Steve gave him a look that was half incredulous and half mortified before turning back to Pepper.

“Miss Potts?” he asked cautiously.

“Is there any family? Nephews? Grand-nephews?” she asked, trying very visibly to make sense of a conundrum apparent only to her.

“Not that I know of. There’s a great-niece. She has a couple of kids but they’re, well, kids.”

“Pep, what’s the matter? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Tony said, sounding genuinely concerned.

“You know how I was in DC last weekend?”

“For the Med summer party? Yeah. Please don’t say what I think you’re going to say.”

“I met this man there.” She stated, more calmly than Steve would have anticipated, while Tony cursed under his breath. Steve’s throat went very tight.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“He looked a bit older, but no more than a few years. The hair was a bit shorter on top, but otherwise, yes, I am sure.” She had paled considerably and now sank down on one of

the stools by the counter, still holding up the photo. Steve mirrored her action, not sure that his legs would support him at the moment.

“Wow.” He said.

“Wow.” Pepper echoed weakly.

Sam made an indistinct noise that might have been exasperation and might have been triumph and probably was some kind of mixture.

“How on earth does a brainwashed assassin on the run get himself invited to an office party of my company?” Tony exclaimed, amending an _‘our company’_ after a look from Pepper.

“He was Miss ________’s plus one.” She explained weakly, her expression having morphed into something equal parts disbelieving and scandalized, like she just found out her only daughter was secretly dating the local teenage delinquent.

“But he was so polite…” she muttered.

“JARVIS, pull up the personnel file.” Tony ordered curtly. “I feel like I should know things like which of my employees like harboring fugitives. It might come in handy.” He looked to the others for praise but Pepper was too busy computing the fact that she’d chatted amiably with a notorious assassin, Steve looked like he had frozen again and Sam looked summarily unimpressed as he poured himself another mug of coffee.

“This was actually one of our most promising traces. I only need to see a picture of this Miss _______ to corroborate it.” He informed the billionaire.

“I feel like there’s a longer story here, and I want to be told all of it within the hour.” Tony replied, then picked up a wayward screw and tossed it at Steve, hitting his shoulder and startling him back to attention. “Shouldn’t you look more relieved?”

Steve gave him a look. Tony responded with an overly theatrical flinch before calling out to his AI again.

“I have uploaded the requested files to your tablet and opened them.” JARVIS informed them. “I have also taken the liberty of collecting any photos and videos taken at the party.”

“Thanks Jarv, you’re a gem. Let’s see it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *rubs hands* it's starting to come together now ;)  
> I have an odd but very fond love for Tony being hyper but quietly and unhesitatingly helpful, other than that I hope I wrote him okay. I mean I hope I don't mess up characterizations of any characters, but Tony is new here now and I assume that someone would have said something if the others had been too terribly written so far.  
> anyway, I'm rambling. Just one more note on the timeline. The plan is that this story takes place between Winter Soldier and the start of season 2 of Agents of SHIELD.


	21. Line and Sinker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the comments, bookmarks, and kudos^^ I just love reading your reactions, so, you know, keep 'em coming ;)

Days went by without anything out of the ordinary. You and James both studiously pretended that awkward morning full of closeness, touching and varying degrees of (potential) kissing never happened and no one came for you, either HYDRA or Avenger. You had been worried about that for a bit, with your boss basically being privy to any Avenger business so long as Mr Stark was involved, but the lack of angry phone calls and the fact that you still had your job was starting to make you believe that you’d dodged that particular bullet. Maybe the good Captain was very adamant about going on his search alone. Maybe saving the world from an alien invasion wasn’t quite the bonding experience it was made out to be after all.

“Miss ________?” Pam’s voice sounded over the intercom stiffly, and if her tone wasn’t enough to tip you off that something shocking and unforeseen had happened then the formal address certainly did. You instantly stiffened, but went to answer despite your nerves.

“Yes, what is it?”

“There is someone here to see you.” Pam’s voice sounded just the slightest bit shaky. She was either star-struck or terrified, possibly even both.

“I don’t have any appointments today.” You countered, knowing it to be true.

“I’d still appreciate it if you could make some time for me.” A male voice sounded over the speaker, and over a small startled squeak from your assistant. You could almost picture the man leaning across her desk in the next room. And you had a sneaking suspicion as to who it might be.

“Is this Mr Miller or Mr Sternberg?” you inquired bravely, hoping that you had put the pieces together correctly. There was a wry chuckle on the other end that sounded more weary than actually amused.

“Impressive.” He commented more as an aside. “May I come in? I feel that might be a bit more fruitful. Not to mention more discreet.”

You gulped, straightening out your hair, blouse and some papers on your desk self-consciously before replying with an affirmative.

“Good day, Captain Rogers.” You said before he’d even fully opened the door, nerves starting to fray. Nevertheless you tried to appear composed and unruffled. He closed the door and stood there a moment, assessing you. He was even bigger than the exhibit suggested, shoulders almost as wide as the door itself, over six feet of lean, solid muscle. Moments passed and he was still just standing there, staring at you like you were a particularly difficult puzzle he needed to figure out.

“That’s a bit rude,” you pointed out sourly, gesturing at him to sit down in one of the visitor chairs in front of your desk, “Not to mention creepy.”

“My apologies, Miss ________.” He said, managing a sheepish smile and that’s when you saw the scrawny little kid from James’ tattered memories before you. It did remarkably little to alleviate the effect of adrenaline and anxiety flooding your system. It’s not every day that Captain America waltzed into your office after all. Then again, the average person probably also didn’t hide his formerly-presumed-dead best friend away in their apartment you supposed.

“You can probably guess why I’m here.” The Captain began tentatively, looking to you as if begging for a lifeline. You found yourself thinking that he wasn’t really made for all this covert spy stuff, then inadvertently found yourself wondering what the fact that you’d managed to hide a most wanted person of interest for nearly three months said about you in that regard.

“Is it because that one time I didn’t vote?” you deflected weakly, “Because I have a good excuse.”

That actually made the Captain grin a little, which was relieving since you’d been mentally kicking yourself since the second those words left your mouth. The moment was over quickly enough. Captain Rogers slumped back in his seat tiredly. You could see the shadowed look in his eyes, the bone-deep exhaustion etched into his features, a glimmer of hope coupled with despair.

“I just…” he trailed off, running a hand over his face. It made you feel a bit guilty for being so short with him, but the urge to protect Jamie was stronger.

“I just need to know that he’s okay. I need to know that he is alive and uninjured and safe.” His voice was quiet and broken, no trace of the paragon of justice, freedom and righteousness – just a tired, haunted man bleeding on the inside. It was heart-wrenching to see that same hollow look that could so often be found on James’ face. You abandoned your aloof façade to reach across your desk, lightly touching the Captain’s hand.

“He’s as well as he can be under the circumstances, I suppose. He’s been with me since the SHIELD thing, minus the one and a half week or so that he spent in the hospital. His injuries were bad enough then, but he’s recovered from those fairly quickly. Physically he’s well now, except for what I suspect is some amount of chronic pain, but he’s not one to complain or even just admit it, so I don’t know that for sure.” You paused after that first section of your report, offering a sympathetic look at the Captain, whose face had twisted with every word.

“Should I go on? Would you maybe like some coffee? Or tea?” you offered helplessly at his distress. Captain Rogers shook his head, begging you to continue.

“Okay, well, mentally – I won’t lie, it’s a struggle. There are good days, sometimes. Most days aren’t but some are. Nightmares are a constant thing, and they’re bad. He barely sleeps because of that. There are several symptoms of severe PTSD, panic attacks, also hallucinations… you understand I’m not an expert on these things so take it with a grain of salt.”

The Captain looked to be in actual pain now, making you falter.

“Captain Rogers…”

“Please, call me Steve.” He pressed out between stiff jaws, more reflexive than sincere.

“Captain Rogers,” you reiterated decisively, “I realize this all sounds horrible, but he’s improved so much already. In the beginning he barely spoke, or ate, or slept, and when he did it was on the floor. He hid himself away in my apartment, terrified of everything and anyone. He’s made so much progress since then. He’s even started regaining some memories…”

“He has?” Steve asked hopefully, grasping your hand in reflex.

“Yeah, he has. It’s all very confused from what little he shares, just flashes at first, and most of it is from after the fall, so not exactly pleasant, but it’s been getting steadily better, too. I mean, until last month we didn’t even know who he was. Well, I mean he knows he used to be the Winter Soldier, but nothing before that.”

“But he knows who he is now?” Steve interrupted you.

“Whoa, loaded question. And not one that is likely to have an easy answer. We went to your exhibit at the Air and Space last month, so he at least knows who he’s _supposed_ to be. I fear the rest is entirely beyond either of our competence.”

 

Steve slunk back in his seat again, releasing your hand. He thought of the various photos and short videos made by other attendees of the summer party, with a man in the background who looked too much like the Bucky he used to know, except maybe adapted to this day and age. He’d tried not to, but his hopes had gotten away from him at seeing the other man talk, dance and even smile with the woman now sitting in front of him. Truth be told, he’d had no idea what to expect, but he knew he wanted his friend back, wanted a second chance after failing to pull him back inside that train. Sam had warned him about this, but he hadn’t wanted to listen. 

Now he felt more on the verge of losing Bucky than he had on the side of that train in ’44 or amid the wreckage of a falling Helicarrier.

Looking at the empathetic expression of the woman in front of him, Steve resolved that as long as Bucky was alright and safe that was all that mattered to him. And if that didn’t include him then that was absolutely agonizingly painful, but eventually worth it. He just had to make sure.

“Did he ever… did he ever hurt you?” Steve asked. That wasn’t what he’d meant to ask, he was sure, but somehow it had slipped out. The woman looked positively affronted now, crossing her arms and pursing her lips before pressing out a flat _“No, never.”_

It was almost discomfiting how quickly her demeanor changed, letting an iron resolve shine through from underneath the sweet outer shell. Steve had the sinking feeling that he’d just committed a blunder of cosmic dimensions.

“Well, since we’re on to asking ridiculous and uncomfortable questions apparently, I’d like to know how you found me.”

Steve shifted uncomfortably in the chair, floundering a bit with where and how to begin, but eventually he managed to recount the entirety of their search, from hitting dead end after dead end over recruiting Sharon’s help to the final breakthrough made by chance and Pepper Potts.

The young woman’s face had softened a bit at first, but grew concerned again towards the end. 

“What about HYDRA?” she asked quietly. Steve swallowed the sour taste he got in his mouth whenever that name fell.

“If they haven’t made a move yet it stands to reason that they don’t know he’s with you.” He replied cautiously, at which she nodded impatiently.

“I figured that, but if you could find us, they can, too.”

“It’s a possibility.” Steve conceded. “The danger is definitely there.”

“I wouldn’t do anything different.” ________ shot back defensively. “I’d do it all again. He needed the help, needs it still. I’d just like to be prepared, but I don’t regret taking him in.”

There was a protective fierceness to that declaration that took Steve aback, even reminding him of the Bucky he grew up with in a way, of the boy who’d sit next to him with an ice pack on his nose as well because while Steve might have been better at sniffing out trouble Bucky was never one to shrink away from a fight.

“I’d like to see him.” he said thickly, wringing his hands. He should have brought Sam, but Sam had had a family emergency and needed the rest after trekking around the country with him and cleaning out HYDRA agents for the better part of these last few months.

 

“That’s not my decision.” You said cautiously, thinking back to that moment in your bathroom less than two weeks ago. You knew that deep down he wanted to see Steve again, but he was scared, so scared. It was strange to consider that this fear might keep him from reuniting with his former best friend when so far he’d been so brave in confronting the things that frightened him, but then again it might be that in this case he’d put someone beside himself at risk.

The Captain’s face fell upon your statement, looking grey and increasingly hopeless. You leant forward in your chair, determined to do your utmost to make this work out.

“I’ll talk to him, try to convince him. Maybe you could come by for lunch or so on the weekend. It’s as safe and familiar as it gets at my place, and I don’t wanna add stress factors to an already tense situation. It might well set him back.” Steve nodded in understanding, albeit it somewhat reluctantly. You had no doubt he’d want nothing more than to jump into a car and drive back to your apartment right now.

“Look, he won’t like the idea at first, and I’m pretty sure it’s not because of you – well, it is, but it’s because he still cares – anyway, I’ll talk to him, bring him round.” You promised solemnly, confident in your ability to sway James. Steve nodded gratefully, even though he could have looked more convinced.

“Okay, if you know where I work you probably have no problem getting my number. Call me tomorrow. Unless there’s an imminent HYDRA threat, in that case please call me immediately.”

That at least made Steve grin a little. He thanked you, shaking your hand and left reluctantly, even saying his good-byes to Pam on his way out. She poked her head into your office as soon as the door fell shut behind him.

“Was that really…?”

“Yes.” You confirmed, feeling strangely tingly now. Pam gaped at the door to her office.

“I can’t believe I didn’t recognize him when he first came by the other day.”

“Well, people hardly expect Captain America to just show up at their workplace, do they?”

“Yeah, I suppose… wait, what did he even want from you?”

“Confidential, I’m afraid.”

“Ugh, boss…”

\---

You arrived back at your apartment greeted by the sound of the radio playing softly in the background and some very agitated meowing. After leaving your purse and coat by the door, you rounded the corner into the open living space to find James struggling to hold down a very displeased Becky while simultaneously trying to do something with tweezers.

“Oh no!” you exclaimed, distraught, “What’s wrong? What happened?”

James sighed, adjusting his grip on the unwilling feline, who whined loudly in protest.

“This little idiot fur ball miscalculated a jump, lost her footing and fell into the rosebush under the window.”

“Oh no!” you gasped, hand flying up to cover your mouth, “Is she gonna be okay?”

“As soon as I get these thorns out she should be.” He answered, wrestling the loudly protesting cat as firmly as he dares and quickly plucking all of five thorns out of her hind leg before she squirms out of his grip like she’s been walking on glowing coals.

“Well, that should be all.” He concluded flatly. Becky hissed up at him defiantly before stalking over to the couch with an air of utter contempt about her.

“Ungrateful little floof.” You muttered absently, at which James makes a little noise that might have been a stifled laugh. You turn around to sass him gently for the insolence, and that’s that as far as not getting awkward around each other is concerned. You’d been doing fairly well all week up until this point, you try to console yourself. Your blossoming feelings are your own problem; and one you’re not going to add to the pile of his because that would be unfair and presumptuous.

“Anyway,” you clear your throat awkwardly, looking down at his hand that’s loosely cradling the removed rose thorns – he’s holding them in his right hand where only a slight clench would press them into his flesh because of course he does; this whole self-preservation thing is still a work in progress –

“You were saying?” James prods, cheeky smirk in place, teasing you like the little shit he is so you make a face at him to compensate for the fact that in this very moment you have actually completely forgotten what you were going to say.

“So, guess who came by my office today.” You eventually recover, taking a seat at the dinner table opposite from him and plucking the thorns from his palm to throw away later. James looked thoughtful for a moment, humoring you, clearly. As previously stated: little shit. Little shit that you had somehow irrevocably fallen for but little shit nonetheless. You adored that as often as it annoyed you.

“Was it Brenda from HR with the newest gossip?”

Really, right now it annoyed you. Tremendously. You weren’t proud of it, but you were only human after all, and pointedly stating “No, your friend Steve.” Seemed like a better course of action than launching yourself across the table and into his arms somehow.

The effect was instant though. Gratifying, too. You never claimed to be a saint. You could still feel a bit guilty about this later.

“…How?” came the choked off reply a few long moments later.

“That’s kind of an interesting story actually; I thought we could share all about it on Saturday. I was thinking coffee? Maybe some cake? Around four is probably the best time, what do you think?” you tried to keep your tone nonchalant, conversational as if this would actually help in any way. James gave a stifled little noise that sounded distinctly unlike mirth in any way.

“You invited him? Here?”

“Into my apartment, where I live? No, I said I’d ask you whether it was okay, which I have just done.” You looked over at him expectantly. He looked like he was about to start hyperventilating, and eyeing those thorns in a way that you couldn’t tell what he possibly intended to do with them. You quickly got up and threw them away, giving him a moment to collect himself.

“I wish we had made a bet. I knew this would happen.”

“Yeah, I remember.” He replied quietly, distractedly rubbing the back of his neck and looking more conflicted than you’d ever seen a person look. 

“Look, I’m convinced it’s gonna be okay. He just wants to make sure you’re alright.”

“Am I?” he murmured absently, and you weren’t sure he even meant to say it out loud.

“There are people more qualified to judge that than me. The thing is, if he could find trace you back here then so can HYDRA, probably. I can’t keep you safe forever, so for better or worse, you’re gonna have to meet with him.” you slumped back in your seat, suddenly exhausted. James bit his lip, fidgeting with his hands, turning the tweezers over and over like it was an oracle that held the answer to his predicament.

“In that case I’d rather it be here than anywhere else.” He said slowly, eventually. “You’ll be here with me, won’t you?”

“I promised, didn’t I?”


	22. First Impressions and Second First Impressions and First Second Impressions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, thank you immeasurably for your comments, kudos and bookmarks^^ It's incredibly gratifying to know someone likes this little story I cobble together when I should be doing work for uni ;)  
> speaking of which: I don't know that I can get the next chapter finished in time, so there might well not be one next tuesday. just a head's up and sorry :( this one is extra long to make up for that. actually it is in fact the longest chapter yet :D  
> 

When you spoke with Steve the next day he was damn near ecstatic, which was almost worth the atmosphere of nervousness that awaited you at home.

“Suck it up, Barnes.” You told James, and “How bad can it possibly get?” and “You are the bravest person I know.”

He’d just look at you with bloodshot eyes, then go back to giving Becky scritches behind the ears. He didn’t sleep at all anymore, nightmares keeping him awake until he couldn’t take it any longer. Thursday evening, less than half an hour after you’d retired for the night, there was a timid knock on your bedroom door.

“Come in.” you called out softly, too lazy to move since you’d just found the perfect sleeping position. The door swung open slowly, revealing James looking sheepish with his blanket in tow.

“Can I …Can I stay here with you tonight?” he asked quietly, blanket bunched in his hands. This was probably a bad idea, you thought absently.

“Yeah, sure, come on in.” You said instead. You could put your emotions on the back burner for him. You had to. His face lit up in a small, grateful smile.

“I can take the floor.” He offered conscientiously.

“Don’t be daft.” You drawled tiredly, patting the empty space on the mattress beside you. The double bed was large enough for two after all and it wasn’t like you hadn’t done this before. It’d be fine.  
He hesitated, busying himself with shaking out his blanket. You rolled your eyes.

“Lie down, dipshit. Don’t make me make you; I just found a comfortable position.”

After a moment, the mattress dipped and there was some rustling and shifting, at the end of which James reached for your hand, loosely lacing your fingers together.

“Thank you.” He whispered, already sounding much more at ease.

“No problem. Good night, Jamie.” You yawned.

“Good night, ________.”

 

You awoke due to something hitting you in the general kidney area.

“Oof.” You said, eloquently. According to the bright numbers on your alarm clock you still had almost half an hour before you had to get up. Fantastic.

“Becky no.” James groused next to you, swiping an arm lazily across your back to dislodge the cat that had woken you so unceremoniously. She hissed half-heartedly before jumping over to him and curling up half on the pillow, half on his head, her tail curling gingerly along his throat.

“Fantastic.” He muttered flatly. “Much better. This is exactly what I had in mind.”

The deadpan delivery makes you giggle softly. The arm that de-catted you remained slung loosely around your hips, but it’s still so goddamn early so you decide to indulge a bit until you’re both more awake. Eye-opening optional.

“How you holding up, champ?” you drawled sleepily, words half swallowed by the pillow your face is smushed against.

“Much better now. Thanks for letting me stay.”

“Don’t mention it.”

 

You dozed off again for a while, nice and warm and the rhythm of your breathing aligned, the sound of the cat purring ever so softly. The small weight of James’ arm around you was comfortable and comforting, throwing into sharp relief how lonely you’d been since your previous relationship ended. Your first serious long-term relationship as a responsible adult, too. You’d met him shortly after moving to DC, had dated for almost a year when you’d walked in on the bastard literally mounting another woman …your only comfort had been that the woman in question hadn’t known he was in a relationship and had broken it off immediately. Like on the spot immediately. With a selection of curses so colorful your head had started spinning. Before that, during your time in New York you’d dated a bit. It never went anywhere, but at least the cute lawyer was still a friend of yours – and, well, your lawyer now, too.

“Do the nightmares ever stop?” James asked quietly, voice morning-rough and earnest. Very earnest. You figure he’s only asking you this because he has no one else to confide in – another reason to reconnect with Steve – and maybe because of how closely your work with veterans.

“No.” You say slowly, finding his free hand, the metal one, and squeezing lightly. “No, the nightmares never stop. There’ll be less, fewer and farther in between, and then you’ll think you did it, you’re free, you finally worked through it, and then they come back, suddenly and with a vengeance, and you wake up panting and shaken and with your heart racing, wondering if all you did was suppressing it.” You sigh deeply, wondering if he can even feel your fingers tightening around the metal. He’s silent for a moment. You still haven’t opened your eyes so you can’t tell whether he’s doing the same or looking at you. It doesn’t matter and your eyelids are so, so heavy you couldn’t lift them if you tried.

“What happened?” James asked, both hesitant and inquisitive, needing to know why you can tell him that like you know.

“I …told you about the mugging, how I got that scar on my leg. The mugger – he had that gun pointed at me. I stared down the barrel of that gun, trying desperately to think of something to say so he’d let us go. We were just two orphan girls on our way home from school. We didn’t even have lunch money, just books and pens. When he pointed that gun at Skye I threw myself at him, knocked him clean to the ground, too. Gun went off, my leg was in the way. I managed to wrestle it out of his hand and Skye kicked it away, but he caught her ankle and it didn’t go far enough so before I know up from down he’s back on his feet, running for the damn thing and the next moment it’s pointed at me again. And at that point my blood’s pooling underneath me and all I can think of is _‘shit shit shit we’re both gonna die because of some junkie and loose gun regulation and I don’t want my last thoughts to be about gun regulations’_ – “ your voice had started to tremble. This was probably the first time you had recalled that incident in such detail since giving the police your statement, back then, but somehow you can’t stop; it’s like a floodgate opened.

“So I’m staring down the damn barrel again like I’d never even moved at all, when Skye tackles the bastard from behind and he drops it, and goes for Skye like something wild, so I crawl over and take it, and I don’t know to this day whether I actually fired it intentionally or if it just went off. Right through the bastard’s knee. I had nightmares pretty much every night right after for months; it only got better after I convinced the detective who’d handled the case to teach me how to shoot, but I still wake up sometimes seeing that damn gun pointed at me.”

James was stunned into silence for a moment, flesh hand rubbing soothingly along the small of your back, which was nice but also really unhelpful in regard to your unresolved feelings.

“Is that what happened the other night? When you had a nightmare, was that what it was about?”

You nodded slowly, eyes still closed, reflexively swiping your free hand in front of your face as if swatting something away. Your accursed alarm clock would ring any moment now. There are tears stinging at the corners of your eyes, so you will them back and sniffle a bit, clear your throat and steady your voice.

“There is no easy fix for this.” You decree solemnly. “There’s only learning to cope, not letting it own and consume you. It’s like a scar – those stay with you for the rest of your life, too.”

“My Pa used to say that scars were the marks of survivors.” James whispered lowly, voice deep and morning-raw, hand splaying across your lower back, fingers curling gently around your hip. You moved your free hand to reach for him, needing the contact, his warmth; it was so very soothing to have someone to hold on to when you felt like slipping away.

“Was he… did he fight in the war?” Becky gave a lazy little chirp of protest, presumably because James had just nodded in answer to your question. Which you obviously couldn’t see since your eyes were still closed, though maybe you could open them now if you tried.

“Yeah, he did. We called it the Great War, then.”

“It’s the First World War now.” You supplied, earning a hum of acknowledgement.

“He had scars, too. From the shelling. Shrapnel mainly, and then a few from the machine gun fire.”

“Sounds like he knew what he was about.” You replied, shuffling around a bit so you were lying more on your side than your front. It was definitely easier to talk without half your face squashed into the pillow. You opened your eyes at last, unable to suppress a giggle at the sight of Becky draped haphazardly over James’ head.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

“Good morning.”

“Yes, good morning.”

\---

“Yeah, I’m there now.” Steve said into his phone while locking his bike and making his way over to the building.

“No, it’s fine Sam, really. You were right, she seems great actually. …Yeah, exactly. I’m glad your dad’s gonna be okay. I’ll be alright here on my own for now. Don’t …no, don’t worry, Sam. …Yes, of course I’ll call you back after…yes, right after …Okay, bye. Say hello to your family for me. Yes, bye.”

Steve disconnected the line and checked the address again before walking up the few flights of stairs, counting off the apartment numbers in his head. Despite his reassurances to Sam, his heart was high in his throat, beating rapidly. He stared at the door for a full five minutes, nervously fidgeting with the bouquet of flowers and the wine bottle, because his mother hadn’t raised him not to bring a gift when he was invited somewhere, but her education had fallen short on the finer points of what to get for your brainwashed childhood friend and the woman who saved his life. Steve felt that daisies and Sauvignon blanc fell awfully short, but what was he to do? 

He took a deep breath, steeling himself. He’d brought Sam around, he thinks, but Natasha would probably tell him that this might well be pointless, that he’s being stupid. But then again she did give him Bucky’s file. At the very least, the Widow would caution him. It’s not that he doesn’t appreciate the concern, but she’s not here and caution was never really Steve’s forte. Also, he doubts that his worst case scenario is the same as hers, or in fact anywhere close. The Russian spy is unexpectedly protective once she lets down her guard and allows herself to care. Steve had jokingly called her ‘Mother Russia’ once because of that, only once though. The look he’d gotten in return had made him genuinely fear for his life.

Which is, peculiarly, not even close to the utter trepidation he feels at this very moment, fingers hovering over the doorbell and listening intently to the slight clinking noises and footfalls on the other side of the door. Steve takes what must have been the ninth or tenth deep breath in half as many minutes and presses down. The melodic _‘bing bong’_ makes him jump even though he expected it. There is a muttered curse to be heard on the other side of the door, a few shuffling steps accompanied by a hushed ‘No, _I_ ’ll get it, it’s fine.’, and then the door opens to reveal the young woman he’d met that same week, dressed in a truly gigantic MIT sweater rather than the smart business casual look she sported at work. 

 --- 

“Oh hey, there you are!” you beam up at the good Captain, self-consciously fiddling with the rolled up sleeve of your sweater. You had meant to be ready and changed by now, but the day had begun with you oversleeping and you’d only just gotten the cake out of the oven some ten minutes ago.  

James gave a choked little noise behind you, out of sight from the apartment door, and you threw him a look over your shoulder before returning your attention to Steve, who looked half frozen and half like he was about to weep.

“Please, do come in.” you said, taking the flowers and bottle thrust at you awkwardly along with a mumbled apology. You led him down the short hallway and into the main living area of your apartment, nearly tripping over an orange blur.

You barely had time to give an irritated sigh with how quickly a mismatched pair of hands shot out to steady you, so at the very least James wasn’t hiding in the kitchen anymore.

“Thanks, champ, but I’m fine.” You murmured distractedly, receiving no reply or indeed any kind of reaction out of him. In fact he stood rooted to the spot, staring straight at the Captain without moving a muscle, with you sandwiched awkwardly between the two very solidly built men. Steve had stopped dead in his tracks not two steps behind you, one hand still half outstretched to catch your fall. Aftereffects of being frozen for most of the previous decades, you thought absently. James stared right ahead, unblinking and unmoving but for a sharp inhale and some miniscule flitting of the eyes. 

“Jamie?” you prod him quietly, nudging a bit at his side as well as you can with full hands. He did have these small episodes, sporadically, just freezing up for a couple of minutes while his tattered mind sought to connect things. It had started shortly after the trip to the museum you explained to Steve, throwing an apologetic look over your shoulder.

“Just  give him a moment, okay?”

The Captain looked dubious, but nodded, retracting his hand and holding himself still.

James looks at the man in front of him intently. He is so familiar, it feels like he knows him by the way his lips curl into smirks and his brows furrow, by how his voice rises and falls (or would, anyway, since the man is rooted to the spot with a watchful expression on his face now), but it's all _wrong. Wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong. He is too tall and too healthy and he dropped his shield and refused to fight. He dropped the shield. He refused to fight. He didn't exactly back down amid the falling burning pieces of debris while the Helicarrier they were on dropped out of the sky, but he let his shield fall through the ground and didn't fight back. That's not right, and he doesn't understand it. The man he thinks he knows would never do that, he always fought tooth and nail and beyond. It's not right it's not right._

“Steve?” he eventually can bring his mouth to form the word, cautious and hesitant like the other is a specter that will disappear if acknowledged.

“Yeah, it’s me. I’m here.” He says, daring to smile just the tiniest bit. And just like that the world around James slides back into place and he becomes aware of how he has essentially trapped you in place. He back stepped quickly, giving you an opening to put Steve’s gifts away.

“Don’t just stand there!” You called from the kitchen, poking your head back out especially for the remark. Steve snapped to attention like he was being addressed by his drill sergeant.

“So, um, how have you been, Buck? Is it okay if I call you that?” James threw a surreptitious glance in your direction at that, but you had already vanished deeper into the kitchen again to cut the cake and pour the coffee. _You’re on your own now, champ._

“Yeah, sure, why not …I’ve been …I’ve been alright I think. I still have lapses, and large gaps in my… in my memory…” he trailed off, leaving a very conflicted looking Captain America standing in your small hallway area. “It’s a slow process, apparently, and some days are better than others. ______ has been helping me a great deal with…everything basically.” James concluded, somewhat deflated at first, but beamed up again when praising you. Good thing you were out of sight for that because you blushed around 20 different shades of pink at that. 

“And what have you been up to?” 

“Looking for you and bearing down on HYDRA, mostly. Not much else, really.”

“And now hug.” You muttered into the following awkward silence, quietly but loud enough to hear, for their enhanced hearing anyway. Steve gave a nervous chuckle. You brought out the coffee pot and set it on the otherwise set table. James gave you a look like a cry for help which you were not going to indulge at present. Instead you drew out a chair demonstratively and told them that you’d be back in a moment with the cake. The proverbial ice hadn’t really been broken yet, but there were definite cracks in it. Small steps, you reminded yourself and set about dividing your masterpiece of bakery into generous slices, all the while trying to gauge the atmosphere in the room. This turned out to be ill-advised, you realized, as the sharp knife bit starkly into your finger, drawing blood.

“Motherflipper!” you cursed, more from surprise than pain.

“That was pathetic.” James’ voice called from the living room. In it you could hear worry, and no small amount of relief, as he quickly rose, shooting Steve an apologetic glance, and padded over to see what the matter was.

“All of us weren’t in the army, you know.” You berated him wryly as you held your bleeding finger under the running tap.

“I think I recall you telling me that you grew up in a rough neighborhood. In the light of this information, I am just a little bit disappointed.” He shot back with mock haughtiness, and no small amount of it. You swatted him on the arm lightly and told him – employing a choice array of rather colorful curses, because you do know them but you weren’t raised in a barn nor a world war trench goddammit – that if he was going to continue being so objectionable he should do it quietly.

You heard a faint snicker from Steve, who had also gotten up and was hovering vaguely at the edge of the kitchen behind James. “Are you alright, ma’am?”

You nodded firmly as James pulled your hand close to inspect the cut with furrowed brows, ‘tsk’-ing quietly to himself. You shot Steve a long-suffering glance while he regarded the scene unfolding before him with wonder.

“Will I live, doctor?” you queried dryly. James seemed to have utterly forgotten your guest, as he single-mindedly set about mending your cut finger. You signaled Steve that everything was fine and he should just sit back down, with which he, albeit haltingly, complied. James meanwhile wrapped a paper wipe around your hand and went for the first aid kit, studiously going about cleaning your very, very minor wound with disinfectant and taking a comically long time to select a fitting band-aid. You knew better than to make any comments beyond ‘You’re stalling.’ in a mildly chiding tone, and therefore didn’t resist when you were ushered into James’ previous seat at the table while he finished up the cake, drawing another chair for himself when everything was in place.

“So, where were we?” you asked over the sounds of chewing, “Ah yes, awkward silence.” You gave James a pointed look. He withered a little while he pretended not to notice.

“So,” Steve chanced, taking the reins after sweetly and sincerely complimenting your cake, his tone trying hard and failing to be light and small talk-appropriate, “How did you even wind up here with ________?”

“That’s kind of a funny story actually.” 

“It’s not that funny.” James objected, otherwise for all intents and purposes very invested in his cake.

“It is, kinda, in retrospect and an absurd, satirical way.” You argued, turning towards Steve. “This is a cautionary tale about opening your windows in times of acute crises…”

 

It was slowly getting dark outside, the considerable amount of cake was all but vanquished and you were on your fourth round of coffee, for as it turned out once you actually got those two going it was almost impossible to stop them again. So far, you had regaled Steve with the story of how the former Winter Soldier had come flying in to quite literally fall at your feet, followed by an earnest exchange that was mostly James interviewing Steve in regards to the memories he had already regained as he sought to confirm them. He zoned out again a few times, getting lost in his mind, sometimes mid-sentence, but managed to pull himself back to the present more quickly each time. They carefully did not touch upon any subjects related to the war, you noticed, and even less on the more recent events, with the notable exception of James being very invested in how, exactly, they were dealing with Hydra.

“This might help you.” James said seriously, handing Steve a list he’d compiled over the last few days and weeks. It contained, he explained, things that he could remember about Hydra that he was fairly sure about – people, names, facilities, structures. Missions.

“You’d do well to cross-check, but I didn’t include anything I wasn’t reasonably certain about. Then again I’m not the most reliable source, exactly, so…” James trailed off, hesitant. Steve looked at him very earnestly and took the few loose sheets of paper with a steadiness that did not betray his inner turmoil.

“I’m sure this will be invaluable in taking them down.” He said in the kind of tone that brooked no doubt.

“It’s not much,” James said. It was, in fact, six pages covered from top to bottom in his sharp, precise script on both sides. It was quite a lot. Considering that he shouldn’t have been knowing any of it, it was a treasure trove. “I just want to help as best I can.”

 

James, after a pointed look at your bandaged finger and a furtive and apologetic one at Steve, offered to take care of the dishes. You, sensing that he needed a moment alone to clear his head, offered in turn to walk Steve back outside. You also had an ulterior motive in catching the Captain alone.

“I don’t want to give you any illusions,” you began as the elevator doors closed, “This has been an exceptionally good day. He isn’t always this well. Most days he isn’t.” Steve nodded gravely, no surprise and yet all shattered hope.

“He needs more and better care than I can give him,” you continued, shushing Steve with a look as he moved to interject, “No, really. It’s nothing short of a miracle that this has gone comparatively swimmingly so far. He needs professionals looking after him, proper doctors, therapists. You can probably figure. It needs to be someone trustworthy, above reproach. I don’t have these kinds of resources at my disposal.” Steve nodded levelly, the glint of determination in his bright, earnest eyes.

“I will see to it.” He promised.

“Good.” You exhaled, satisfied. The elevator pinged and the doors opened. You hesitated to move, chancing a furtive glance up at Steve, who was fidgeting with the buttons of his jacket, equally apprehensive to leave.

“I cannot possibly thank you enough.” He said quietly. You waved it off reflexively.

“There is… there is one more thing I want to ask you, and I’m kinda scared of what the answer might be.” You admitted to your shoes. “Was he… anything like he used to be? Before? Even if it’s just a tiny little glimpse, was there anything you recognized at all?”

“Why do you care so much?” Steve responded instead of answering your question. His voice was all quiet wonder. You gulped, feeling yourself stiffen a bit. It wasn’t something you liked to talk about, especially not to strangers, even if those strangers were Steve Rogers, aka Captain America – possibly, you thought, the most trustworthy person you’d ever met. The only other person you’d ever met to radiate that kind of integrity had been Sam, at the hospital. You briefly wondered how he was doing, but turned your mind back on track, clearing your throat while lining up the words in your mind.

“Um, I guess it’s just, I know what it’s like not to have a history, having nothing to base your identity on. I mean, my situation was different, sure, I don’t know who my parents were or where I came from, and I never will. He can still get that back, he can reclaim himself, I hope. But for the moment; I’ve been there. I know what it’s like to have nothing.” You played with the elevator buttons absently, keeping it in place even though the doors had closed again in the meantime.

“You didn’t answer my question.” You pointed out after a moment. Steve gave you a short glance full of apprehension. “I just need to,” you started, but then cut yourself off, steadying your shaking hands on the rails. “When I go back up there I need to know whether or not I can give him hope. He’ll never be exactly the way you knew him, I don’t think. There’s just…too much in between. You can’t go through that kind of stuff and not expect it to leave a mark.” Steve nodded again, evenly, regarding you with clear blue thoughtful eyes as you rambled. “So, um, yeah…what do I tell him?” you finished lamely. Steve straightened, weighing his words carefully before beginning to speak with a tentative tone.

“I was surprised myself,” he started thickly, but had to clear his throat. “He is certainly more reserved, not as open and outgoing as he used to be, but then again that started during the war already. Perhaps the most obvious thing was when you cut your finger. For a moment it was like nothing ever happened, because that was 100% the Bucky I grew up with. He was always taking care of everyone, always helping, looking where he could be useful. It wasn’t just being the oldest of four and having that responsibility; it was an innate part of who he was. He helped his mother with the household, helped his siblings with their homework, helped me with …well, everything basically, I can’t even begin to count the number of times ...” Steve’s voice caught in his throat again as he lost himself in his reminiscences.

“You're doing right by him, and I can never thank you enough.” He concluded. You felt your face redden. By now the elevator door had opened again, since you were no longer worrying the buttons. Steve cleared his throat, shifting in his spot uncertainly. You should probably wrap this up now instead of standing around all awkward; it was selfish to keep him here. He probably had hundreds of places to be, being Captain America and all. You straightened up to say your goodbyes, only to find Steve already offering you his hand. You took it gladly.

“Goodbye, ________. It was such a pleasure meeting you; and an honor.” He said sincerely.

“Goodbye.” You mumbled numbly, at a loss for words.

“You can always call me, no matter what it is or what time. Either of you.” He said, placing a little card with his contact details in your hand before exiting the elevator at last.

 

“So, that went well!” you exclaimed cheerfully once you were back in your apartment and closed the door behind you. James was sitting on the couch with Becky in his lap, petting her distractedly while he chewed on his bottom lip.

“Did it?” he asked somewhat glumly; full of doubt.

“Yes.” You affirmed, sitting next to him and curling your feet up so you could lean onto his shoulder. “Yes it did, and you’re gonna be okay.”

“I’ll never be the same again.” He murmured thinly, his hand burying itself in the soft fluff of Becky’s tummy. “I’ll never be who I was before.”

“Jamie, listen to me,” you said earnestly, cupping his cheek so he would look you in the eye, “You are under no obligation to be exactly who you used to be. No one in their right mind would expect you to just bounce back; Steve won’t be exactly like he used to be back then either. Hell, you can’t go through a life-changing experience and expect it not to have an effect – that wouldn’t be natural, or healthy, in fact. But that doesn’t mean you won’t be able to work this out. So, if you want it – and I know that you do – you are going to be okay, understand?”

His inner struggle was evident on his face, or perhaps you had just gotten that good at reading him by now. You could tell he wanted to believe you, but was reluctant to place that kind of hope in himself. You placed your forehead to his, willing him to accept that getting better was a real prospect.

“Come on, you said you trust my judgment.” You cooed, patting the arm that had somehow found its way around you.

“I do,” he smiled hesitantly, “You have this way of making these things sound so plausible.”

“It’s my superpower.” You declared smugly.

\---

The phone’s ring cut through the evening calm like a knife through butter, startling Agent May though there was barely any outward sign of that. Coulson didn’t even react, frantically carving at the wall of his office. It was one of the emergency phones, which meant that May would have to take the call. She picked up tentatively, quietly receiving the report from the agent on the other end of the line, left them with a few instructions and set the receiver back down. Coulson took another agonizing twenty minutes to finish his alien writings. When he was fully in possession of his wits again, May handed him the notes she’d made while taking the call. He read them over quickly, his eyes widening then narrowing.

“This just came in?”

“Less than half an hour ago.” May nodded. “I gave instructions to continue observation and report hourly or in case of any developments.”

Coulson sighed, rubbing his burning eyes.

“What could possibly be of interest in Bethesda? A Stark Industries employee you said?”

“_________ ___________, branch manager of a research facility. They specialize in prosthetics.” May supplied conscientiously. “Whoever she is, she’s important enough for Captain Rogers to go visit her at her home address. I can only assume that he wasn’t aware that HYDRA has eyes on him.”

Coulson sighed deeply. Outside the office, Skye stood frozen in shock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finally, the reunion! also more fluff. everything seems to be sliding into place, doesn't it?  
> how did you like it? did it live up to your expectations? tell me everything.  
> I'm curious about something else: if you guys had to describe my writing style, what would you say? Apart from 'serial abuser of adverbs' and 'probably more commas than entirely necessary' that is.   
> or, you know, theories, hopes, expectations, questions - all welcome.


	23. Crash Landing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all thank you for your patience and continued support :) Almost all my presentations for uni are done and I remain alive and well despite that. And now, before I lose control and spoil the hell out of you all, enjoy this chapter^^

Skye put her training to good use and disappeared from the old SSR base without anyone noticing. She made it to your doorstep in under a day and now stood there for a moment, steadying her breaths and nerves like May had taught her to. She’d called you on the way to make sure you were home and alive and didn’t suspect anything, but unfortunately wasn’t able to get any clues as to why you had shown up on both SHIELD’s and HYDRA’s radar. She gripped her spare key tightly, took a deep breath and slid it into the lock near soundlessly.

\---

Steve would be coming by again today, bringing a friend along who’d helped him on his search. You’d just put the dinner in the oven some minutes ago, so it would be ready when they arrived later that evening. Since there was nothing else to do for the time being, you were just lounging on the couch lazily flicking through the TV guide, feet tucked under and head leaning on James’ shoulder when you heard the door lock click softly. Which was strange and alarming, considering only two people besides yourself had keys to your apartment, one of whom was sitting next to you and the other was probably half a country away at least. James stiffened next to you, muscles tensing, going into fight mode preemptively.

“You heard that, too?” he whispered so lowly that you had to strain to hear. You nodded, already rising from the couch and going for your trusty baseball bat, which you had stored near the door. You sincerely hoped this wasn’t some HYDRA lackey trying to pick your lock, but if it was they’d get what was coming to them. James was not even a step behind you, fists clenched. The door clicked ominously.

“Go hide.” You ordered.

“What? No!”

You rolled your eyes, throwing him a look over your shoulder.

“Whoever that is, they can’t know you’re here.” You hissed. “Go get out of sight. If things go south, you’re more than capable enough of sorting them out with five extra steps to take.”

He scowled at you for a moment, but relented eventually, slinking back behind the corner of the living room. You nodded your appreciation and crept closer to the door. Whoever was on the other side was very invested in not being heard. They turned the lock so carefully that the clicks were barely audible. Had you not been done in the kitchen or had the TV been running already you very likely wouldn’t have noticed. You gulped and gripped your bat tighter, extending one hand towards the door handle. Sucking in a breath, you tugged the door open, bat raised halfway and ready to bear down on the person trying to get into your apartment.

“Oh, um, hey.” Skye said, awkwardly rising to her feet again from her hunched down position. “Surprise?”

“Are you fucking kidding me? I almost had a heart attack!” you whisper-shouted, letting the bat fall to pull her into a hug. For a moment, everything else faded into the background, James, HYDRA threats real and imagined, imminent guests and the question of how your best friend ended up trying to sneak into your apartment when by rights she should have been off somewhere doing secret spy stuff and protecting the world from fascist cults. You squeezed Skye tightly, suppressing a dry sob. Phone calls just didn’t cut it in the long run. You had missed her.

“Come in, come in,” ushered her inside urgently, picking your bat back off the floor and closing the door. “Why are you here? What is it? Is something wrong?”

Your rambling was interrupted by a squeaky little meow. Skye’s head snapped around so fast you feared she’d give herself whiplash. James stood pressed to the wall like a deer in headlights, struggling to restrain an unhappy cat. Oh, you thought absently, yeah, there was that, too.

“Um, hi.” He waved awkwardly, releasing the squirming cat. Skye stared, mouth actually hanging open unflatteringly.

“You …you are… Are you seeing this?” she stuttered, swiveling around to you for only a second before turning back. James ran a hand through his hair nervously. It was only then that Skye registered the metal arm on more or less full display. Her eyes widened even further.

“Holy crap!” she exclaimed. “You’re Bucky Barnes!” James nodded, hesitantly as if someone would jump out from some corner and accuse him of lying.

“I did a history project on you in middle school!” Skye blurted out, still trying to process the situation she had just been thrown into.

James pulled a face. “Sorry, did you get a good grade at least?”

“Yeah I got an A,” she answered in one shallow breath, sinking down on the edge of the couch, “And you’re the Winter Soldier.”

“Unfortunately, yes. That too.”

Skye twirled around to you and your guilty face. “Explain.”

“Well, you see, it’s …um …well…the thing is… uh-” you faltered, looking to James for help. He just shrugged. Great. Very helpful. Actually, he looks somewhat terrified, so you might cut him some slack.

“Oh my god,” Skye groaned, fingers raking through her hair, “Has he …have you been here this whole time?”

James took a tentative step closer, hunching down a bit to diminish his imposing frame. “Pretty much, yes.”

She sighed, fixing you in a scowl. “And you didn’t tell anyone. Of course you didn’t tell anyone. I am not even surprised.” Just a little wounded that _‘anyone’_ hadn’t included her, you surmised from the way her lips pursed, but considering she hadn’t told you that she’d joined up with SHIELD until well after the fact you reckoned that particular bet even, though it would need some talking about eventually, and privately. You sat down, suddenly exhausted, dragging a hand over your face. A few deep breaths allowed you to process this new development.

“Wait, wait,” you started, thinking back to the phone call earlier in the day. “If you didn’t know that, then why are you here?”

“HYDRA put some bloodhounds on the Captain’s trail and he led them straight here.”

James gave a choked noise of distress, hands flying up to press against his temples. Oh no. this was all kinds of _bad_. You bounded over to him, no time for fear over HYDRA being onto you flaring up at the more pressing matter of keeping your traumatized ex-assassin from freaking out. You slung one arm across his quaking shoulders and pressed the hand of the other to the side of his face, making him look at you.

“Jamie,” you said urgently, pressing your forehead against his. His breath came in short puffs as he clung to you tightly. “Jamie, I need you to try and calm down, okay? Breathe with me.”

“Shit, shit, I’m so sorry!” Skye exclaimed somewhere behind you, but you waved her off for the moment, concentrating instead on getting James to join in with your deliberately slowed breathing. In, hold, out, slowly, in, hold, out. He slid down a bit, slumping down on his knees with his face pressed to the side of your neck. You trailed your hand through his hair and down the back of his neck in rhythm with the breathing. Eventually, it took hold and you felt him relax properly against you, the arms that had been holding you tightly slackening. Skye approached cautiously with a cup of water. You marveled at how quickly your evening had gone deeper south than Ushuaia in a matter of minutes. And the planned guests hadn’t even arrived yet. With or without a potential tail of squids.

“Are you here…officially?” you asked Skye tiredly after making sure James was sufficiently settled down again after his near-panic attack. Skye’s guilty look told you everything you needed to know.

“Mary-Sue Poots…” you began sternly, but lacked the energy to go on. The little episode had utterly drained you. You made yourself as comfortable as you could while kneeling on the floor with a still slightly trembling super soldier clinging to you. You took the offered cup from Skye at last, nudging James gently to take a sip. He did so with a small ‘Thank you’. A quick glance at the clock told you that you had about half an hour before Steve and his friend were due to arrive, so that should at least give you all enough time to clear this up. You turned to Skye.

“Start talking.”

\---

"So basically, they set someone on Steve simply to be thorough." James concluded eventually, having regained his calm and gained a single-minded focus.

"It might have something to do with him tearing through a number of their bases like in the old days, but if they even just suspected you were here I'm pretty sure they'd have made a move already." Skye answered. You flinched, another wave of nausea settling itself low in your stomach. Of course, it had been naïve to assume that HYDRA wouldn’t find you eventually; you’d just hoped to have things far more sorted out by then.

Your oven beeped shrilly, signaling that the lasagna was done. In light of recent developments you’re glad to have made far more than necessary for the expected amount of mouths to feed, then again you’ve well and truly lost your appetite by now. Nevertheless you got up to see to the food, simply to have something to do that makes _sense_.

The doorbell rang, and you walked over like in trance. Steve smiled hesitantly, offering you another bottle of wine, Italian this time. You smiled weakly, trying to catch a glimpse of his companion. If this evening held any more excitement in store for you you’d rather get it over and done with.

Steve looked concerned for a moment, but stepped aside to reveal his companion, the ‘friend’ he mentioned multiple times during your conversations. The ‘friend’ turns out to be Sam. As in _‘Sam from the hospital’_ Sam. You gaped a moment, the greeting getting stuck in your throat while the pieces slide into place. Steve knew you knew Sam, however briefly. Steve had deliberately not mentioned this or the fact that he’d been in the same damn hospital as James for at least a full week. Steve, you concluded, was a grade A troll.

“You” you said tersely, zeroing in on the Captain and the barely concealed smirk he wore, “Are a contrary pain in the ass.”

A snort could be heard from the living room. Under different circumstances, you would have been equally amused. As it is, all you can do is sigh wearily.

“Come in.” You stated simply. “There have been a few interesting developments. I’m so glad there’s wine.”

\---

The apartment felt overcrowded, but James was determined to keep it together, too proud to have a second meltdown in the same evening even though his skin felt too tight and his muscles locked up with tenseness. His stomach felt non-existent, but he ate simply to have something to do, something to concentrate on that wasn’t worrying about HYDRA coming back for him, or worse even, HYDRA coming for _you_ , or Steve, or your friends. Skye he had recognized immediately from the photo in your shelf, but the man Steve had brought along looked frustratingly familiar. He threw a sideways glance at you shoving your food around on your plate and taking sips from your wine glass more often than not. He forced his mind into stillness, zoning out of the conversation that mainly happened between Steve and Skye, trying to ground himself by surreptitiously stroking across the _‘James Buchanan Barnes’_   written on his right wrist.

“…okay, man?” James jumped, knocking his knuckles against the edge of the table. Steve’s friend was looking at him with a raised eyebrow. Sam. The guy’s name was Sam and it drove James nearly mad to not be able to place him. He was sure he’d seen him before.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“I asked whether you’re okay.”

He seemed genuinely sympathetic, as far as James could tell. Which was a nice change of pace from what he was used to from HYDRA, but James wasn’t just going to pour his heart out to an essential stranger. Why did he even care? He must have known what he had done as the Soldier. He briefly considered deflecting, but decided that he had no nerve for whatever discussion would ensue from that.

“Just a headache, it’s fine. Thanks for asking.” Manners, he’d found, were a very effective social lubricant. In truth, his head felt like it might split in half. He suppressed a groan of pain, and another one of pure annoyance when he found that the whole table had halted in their discussion to stare at him dubiously.

“Stop that.” He told them.

“Why don’t you-“

“No pills.” He was adamant about that. Very adamant indeed. He doubted any regular pharmaceuticals would work on his enhanced metabolism anyway, if the way HYDRA handled anesthesia was anything to go by. Great, now his arm flared up with phantom pain, too. James rose abruptly, knocking his chair backwards a few inches.

“Just …need a moment. Carry on.” He muttered, steadying himself on the table a moment before walking the few quick steps to the bathroom before anyone could protest. He splashed some water on his face, cold but not freezing. A look in the mirror told him he looked awful in a way that a proper haircut and good food couldn’t counteract, with his pallid complexion, five o’clock shadow and deep dark circles under his hollow eyes. You had graciously allowed him to share your bed a few more times, but he couldn’t …that was an entirely different grave he was digging for himself. And he should really stop taking advantage of your kindness like that but it was so incredibly soothing not to be alone, to wake up with the warmth of another person near. He would have to sort out his increasingly conflicting, decidedly non-innocent feelings sooner or later…

And now he’d brought HYDRA right to your doorstep. He’s on his knees before he can even complete that thought, dry-heaving for a moment before two generous servings of lasagna (or what’s left of it) make their way back up his throat. No Sam, he was definitely not okay, but thanks for the concern considering I threw you off a damn Helicarrier after clipping your wings.

Wait, what-

 Wings?

“Mrreeow.” Becky intoned, head-butting his thigh.

“How did you even get in here?” he asked the animal as if he genuinely expected a reply. The cat mewled plaintively at the partly cracked bathroom window. Okay then. He rubbed her head appreciatively before rising to his feet and rinsing the bitter taste of vomit from his mouth.

\---

You should probably stop drinking, you thought as you poured yourself another glass. There was a beat of uneasy silence as James threw up in the bathroom, clearly audible through the thin door and otherwise open main room of your apartment. Your stomach churned along out of sympathy and, you suspect, the unfavorable wine to food ratio. Your guests seemed to have suddenly lost their appetites as well.

“Today started out so good…” you groaned, rubbing the bridge of your nose. Steve started to speak, but you shot him down before he could even get out a peep, that’s how stressed you were. You knew what he wanted to say anyway; his expression spelled it out pretty clearly.

“No, leave him be. If he’s not back out in five minutes, I’ll go. Don’t be a mother hen.”

It’s incredible how fast you went from nervous awe to unblinking dressing-down considering you’d only met this man in the flesh less than two weeks ago. Skye certainly seemed to think so if the way her eyes widened was anything to go by.

“You, of all people, don’t get to criticize others for not wearing their pain on their sleeve.” Sam said levelly, but not unkindly. You got the distinct impression that this is a point that has been made before between them. Besides, if he’d been punished for every display of perceived weakness he’d think twice before admitting to it, too. You said as much, plunging the table into another bout of stricken silence.

James returned from the bathroom, face carefully schooled into a mask of neutrality. He stopped short upon sensing the severe mood, but you mustered up a reassuring smile for him. No sense in letting him think he was somehow responsible.

He took your cue and sat back down, shuffling and frowning under the gazes thrown his way. You clinked your glass to his still half-full one (and he wasn’t on his third refill like you were) and dispassionately declared that there was dessert to be had if anyone wanted.

Then, like in a bad sitcom, there was a knock at the door.

“Well, your cooking is pretty great.” Skye quipped, easing you out of the sudden freezing sensation that had overcome you at the sound.

“If it’s HYDRA, salespeople or Jehovah’s Witnesses…” you began vaguely, rising to get the door. You didn’t sway, which you were proud of, but you did feel a bit over-light as you stepped into the hallway, clutching your trusty baseball bat.

On the other side of the door, hand raised to knock a second time, stood an unremarkable looking middle aged man and a young woman around your own age. They didn’t immediately look threatening, but that might have just been the point. At this stage, you’re ready to expect anything.

“Can I help you?!” you all but growl. They looked taken aback.

“Are you Miss _________?” the man chances, throwing a calculating look at your bat.  

“Depends. You from SHIELD?” you continued, your speech slurring just the slightest bit. They exchange a rather meaningful glance. You’d run out of patience an hour ago, so you just waved them through and turned back inside.

“We could be HYDRA.” The man protested weakly. You threw him a withering look over your shoulder. All in all it’s probably not the best first impression to make. Not that you really care anymore.

“Yeah, well, I’ve got an apartment full of people both willing and able to fuck you up if you are, not excluding myself, so…” you gestured vaguely, “Running at this point will be regarded as an admission of guilt, but we will give you a little head start. Probably. You’re just in time for dessert.”

“Please tell me you know these two.” You said tiredly to Skye, not even bothering to put your bat away anymore.

“Jemma!” she exclaimed in surprise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ushuaia - for those of you who have been failed by their education, Ushuaia is a city at the very southernmost point of Argentina and therefore South America, essentially. I would have said Antarctica, but there's definitely some shit yet to come in the story that warrants such a figure of speech more. Also I wanted to mention Ushuaia in honor of my father who went there once and never shut up about it again. So, to any natives of the country or place reading this: it made a definite impression on a young sailor many years ago. Congratulations. 
> 
> Okay, this is gonna be a tricky chapter, and I'm not quite there with the end of it, and since I could see it was turning pretty long I decided to split it here and get the second part to y'all after; this way you don't have to wait as long.  
> So, hope you enjoy. Stay tuned for part 2. Tell me all your thoughts and feelings, your hopes and fears, your wishes and suspicions... ;)


	24. Crash Landing pt 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, this was a tricky chapter, not gonna lie. Very difficult to write. I struggled all weekend, basically, plus most of Monday. Tell me whether it was worth it *nudge nudge you know what I mean*  
> As always, thank you for the feedback on the last chapter, especially Winters_Children, Nano~ and fallenbuckybarnes for the wonderful comments ^^  
> Seriously, 34 subscribers (which is awesome and I wish I could hug you all, make no mistake) and two people commented though. You're all waiting for the second part, aren't you? Well, here it is. No more excuses.

_“Please tell me you know these two.” You said tiredly to Skye, not even bothering to put your bat away anymore._

_“Jemma!” she exclaimed in surprise._

The young woman put on a mildly scolding expression for about a second before diving in for a hug. You pushed back the pang of jealousy; Skye was allowed to have friends beside you. You had friends other than her. Like your lawyers. And the amnesiac ex-assassin hiding out in your apartment.

“Agent Coulson… But …you died?” Steve uttered, which surprised you in turn. The man cleared his throat awkwardly and the tips of his ears turned an interesting shade of red. You barely had the time to exchange questioning glances with anyone at all before James spoke up, effectively though probably unintentionally drawing all attention back to himself.

“Oh wow Steven, dying and then coming back to life? What a crazy, unprecedented happenstance in your life.”

There he was again, the sarcastic little shit you’d grown so fond of, even though at the moment it was all façade. In fact, James looked and sounded just about as done with the situation as you felt, rubbing his hand over his eyes tiredly. You sat back down heavily in the seat next to him, suddenly exhausted to the bone. Agent Coulson’s face had slipped for a moment before he reined his expression in again. Nevertheless one could see the pieces clicking into place in his mind.

“Sergeant Barnes…?” he eventually chanced, hesitant.

“That’s what the evidence points to.” James retorted dryly, barely able to hold eye contact.

“I thought you’d died.”

“Didn’t we all.”

“And you are…” Coulson trailed off while looking at the gleaning silver hand resting on the table.

“I was as surprised as you are.” James met the other man’s eyes again now, his gaze challenging for a moment before that bone deep exhaustion returned. He slumped back in his chair, his right hand searching for yours under the table and interlacing your fingers. The two SHIELD people were still standing in your apartment like forgotten petitioners. Clearly, this could not stand, even at what was probably the world’s most awkward impromptu dinner party.

“You know where the extra chairs are.” You said to Skye, waving vaguely. The feeling of nausea and abject panic had returned and for a moment, you felt like just throwing out the lot of them and curl up on the couch with James and Becky to watch a movie and pretend like none of this was happening. A comedy would be best, something genuinely silly to take your minds off all of this. James looked like he’d be up for the idea should you suggest it, but then again HYDRA wasn’t likely to respect your wishes for peace and quiet, so if they were really anywhere as close as Skye had said, you’d need to do the responsible adult thing and face this now.

Sam helped Skye with the simple fold out chairs, and the tiramisu, so soon enough everyone was settled with a seat and a dish. The scene wasn’t made any less surreal for the piercing stare Steve directed at the man named Coulson.

“This is delicious, Miss _______.” The young woman, Jemma, said politely into the tense silence.

“Thank you. Maybe if I offered these HYDRA people some they’ll go away. Or do you think they’re above bribery?”

She looked taken slightly aback at your tone, making you regret the words that had come out harsher than intended. She’d only tried to be nice after all.

“Sorry,” you muttered, “It’s been a trying evening.”

“Well, the good news is that as far as we can tell, HYDRA hasn’t yet caught wind of Sergeant Barnes’ whereabouts, and they’re currently spread too thin to organize an offensive. The two scouts who were tracking Captain Rogers could be intercepted before making contact and are currently being detained by members of my team.” Coulson outlined the situation. You allowed yourself a breath of relief, but James was still tense next to you.

“You don’t need a lot of people for an abduction, or even an assassination.” He remarked glumly, his dessert largely untouched.

“True, but for now we’re one step ahead. We have the upper hand.” Skye said emphatically, shooting Coulson a pleading look.

“We have to act fast. Time is of the essence.” Steve stated, deciding to put his misgivings about SHIELD on the back burner. “I don’t think staying here is an option.”

“I’ll die before I ever go back to them.” James muttered under his breath, his tone chilling. He was completely serious; there could be no doubt about that. There were a few gaping mouths in response.

“That won’t be necessary.” Jemma said clippedly before anyone else could muster up the presence of mind to reply, but you thought you saw Coulson nod absently.

“So, how’re we going to spin this?” Sam was asking the sensible questions. You shot him an appreciative look, even managing a hint of a grateful smile. James gripped your hand tightly under the table, giving no other outward sign of his distress. Coulson shifted and put his dish down on the table with deliberation, collecting his thoughts.

“Obviously this is not ideal,” he began, “We’re caught off guard, but it’s no use complaining about that now. We’ll have to cobble something together; I need to make some calls. Do you think Agent Carter would be willing to help some more?” He directed the question at Sam and Steve, who nodded hesitantly, Steve already pulling out his phone.

“Won’t know if we don’t ask.”

Coulson nodded slowly, gears turning in his head. You didn’t feel as reassured by this display of confident competence as you would have liked to be, but what can you do. Skye shifted closer and caught your free hand, squeezing it. That helped a bit.

“In any case you might want to pack a few things.” Coulson said mostly to James, who perked up and nodded hesitantly, looking to you for you didn’t even know what, exactly. You told him to go ahead; you’d follow in a moment. He rose slowly, reluctance written all over his face. You waited until the door of your bedroom clicked shut behind him and Steve had put down his phone again before rounding in on the agent.

“Where are you gonna take him?” Not that you actually expected the man to just give up sensitive information about a secret base, but you had to try.

“So I take it you don’t intend to accompany us there?”

You shook your head, having sobered up significantly during the last half hour.

“It’ll be too suspicious if I just vanish.” You theorized and Coulson nodded while everyone else just gaped at you, completely scandalized. That irked you. It’s not like you were doing this for selfish reasons, you told yourself.

“None of you have any right to judge me.” You declared, sounding far more confident than you felt, because in truth you were absolutely terrified. You deflated a bit, rubbing your temple against the headache growing there. “This is between me and him.”

You could still feel the judgmental looks and decided that you didn’t care. Who’d have thought that a youth spent hearing different variations of the term ‘dumpster baby’ would result in being immune to Captain America’s Stare of Disapproval? Though you were not looking forward to the conversation you’d have to have with James. Even your skin was only so thick.

“It’s called the Playground. I cannot disclose the location but it’s a former SSR base. Director Fury had it remodeled and updated and it now functions as the headquarters for who and what’s left of SHIELD. Sergeant Barnes will be as safe there as he can possibly be, I promise you this.”

“What about alternatives? That can’t be the only option?” Steve said hotly, just this side of bristling. You guessed he’d rather be in control himself instead of handing James off to the same people who didn’t notice that HYDRA was there under their very noses.

“And where would that be, Captain? You no longer have a permanent residence. Mr Wilson’s place is no different than here. Stark’s place in New York? A glass tower in the middle of Manhattan? How long until someone gets wind of Sergeant Barnes’ whereabouts? And you’d have to keep him confined. How well do you expect that to go over? At SHIELD we can offer him protection as well as the chance to help bring down HYDRA.” Coulson argued levelly. Steve still glared but didn’t have any counter-arguments of his own, which he clearly didn’t like. He exchanged a look with Sam, then turned back to Coulson and sighed in very reluctant defeat.

“So, what’s the plan?”

  

When you made your way into your bedroom, after leaving the rabble in your apartment to scatter and see to preparations for the plan of action you’d outlined together, you found James not packing his meagre belongings but rather sitting on the bed, staring into the middle distance and holding on to Becky who’d fled to the relative safety here after stranger after stranger kept arriving.

“Hey…” you said softly, settling down next to the two and resisting the urge to just fall back and sleep. You were so exhausted. As soon as your body came down from its current adrenaline high you would surely crash, and hard.

“You are not being replaced, you know.”

“Huh?”

James looked at you with a sad smile while you still tried to piece together what he was even talking about. He nodded towards the door and the main room of your apartment that lay beyond it.

“That young woman, Dr Simmons? And no doubt a handful of other people that your friend is working with now. They’re her friends, maybe even something like a family, but she isn’t replacing you.” Becky gave a little meow of protest when James’ hand neglected to rub her belly in order to squeeze yours for a moment. “No one could ever replace you.” He added quietly. You gulped. Great. He wasn’t making this any easier.

“You haven’t packed anything.” You said instead, stalling for time, and badly.

“Hmm, yeah – didn’t wanna go rummaging through your stuff. It’s bad manners. Can’t risk my Ma rising from the dead just to give me a scolding now, can we? Enough to deal with as it is.” He joked weakly. Your answering smile felt fake and brittle, and it fell quickly.

“Let me just get you a bag,” you started up, quickly walking over to search your closet for the old duffel bag you knew was in there somewhere, still stalling. This wasn’t going to get any easier.

You sifted through the mess at the back of your closet for longer than perhaps strictly necessary. The duffel was old but in good condition. You still remembered how you’d packed most of what you owned into it to move away and go to college. You’d felt so guilty back then for leaving Skye behind. She was only one school year below you, but you’d worked so hard for the scholarship that allowed you to go to college in the first place, just like you’d worked hard for everything that you had now.

The bag seemed so much smaller now than it had back then. Though it wasn’t like James had a whole lot to put into it. Your heart constricted, but you forced a smile and stood, handing it over to him.

“I’m sorry it has come to this.” He murmured, absently fiddling with the strap. “All you did was help. I never meant to uproot you.”

Well, this was as good an opening as you were ever going to get.

“I’m staying.”

“…What??”

Oh no, this was bad. Shouting, anger, you could have dealt with, but this disbelief, his voice so small and his eyes wide and uncomprehending – this was horrible. Even Becky looked at you accusingly.

You breathed deeply, exhaling with deliberate slowness.

“Jamie,” you began cautiously, “We both knew this was never a permanent solution. You were sleeping on my couch, for goodness’ sake!” You felt the tears stinging at the corners of your eyes, and wiped at them vehemently. Better to do this the band-aid way, quick and all at once. “You’ll be going with Skye and her people and I’ll stay right here to avoid suspicion. It’s the best way.”

There was a beat of silence wherein his eyes went from raw hurt to cold fury. Becky slunk away with a miserable meow and hid under the sideboard.  

“And when was this decided?” he spat, dropping the duffel bag. It landed on the carpeted floor with a soft rustle. You were far too tired for any of this, too scared, too exhausted. A small flame of annoyance kindled in the pit of your stomach, quickly fanning into actual anger that would unload on the next best target.

“You cannot possibly expect me to just drop everything and run. Do you even know how hard I worked for this?” you seethed, making a sweeping gesture around the room.

“Oh well, I am _so_ sorry to be inconveniencing you, Miss ________!” James’ tone was dripping with derision, but it did little to mask the hurt, betrayal and fear underneath. In a different frame of mind you may have been able to handle this better, to remain calm and reasonable and reassuring, but with HYDRA breathing down your neck you panicked. At least you managed not to raise your voice.

“It’s not like that and if you truly think it is, then I don’t know what to tell you.”

“Just admit it!” he rose, towering over you despite the few feet between you, “Just admit that you regret helping me! I’m sorry to be bringing all this down upon you, but it’s not something I can change, no matter how much I want to!”

“I don’t! I don’t regret anything!” _Except falling for you, then maybe this wouldn’t hurt quite as much._ “I don’t regret helping you! I would do it all again in a heartbeat, but right now there is a very real threat and I’m allowed to be scared! I’m allowed to be scared…”

Your voice petered out pitifully, ending in a choked sob and now you really were crying. You felt about a miserable as James looked at this point, and as helpless, too. He’s avoiding your eyes, now, instead stooping down to retrieve the duffel bag and starting to randomly shove stuff in there.

“I’ll just go and get you your things from the bathroom.” You hiccup, trying to force down the sobs, trying to keep it together. He’s putting up those walls around himself again and for a moment you wish you could just rewind to that morning, when you had woken up with an arm looped loosely around your waist and his face nuzzled to your neck, warm breath fanning across your skin. You shake the thought forcibly, gathering up toothbrush, shampoo and whatnot, even the damn razor. When you return, he’s sitting on the edge of the mattress again, just like he did when you first came in, except sans cat. You dump the things you gathered into the open duffel unceremoniously, then snatch your ridiculously oversized MIT sweater from its hook on the closet door and stuff it in, too. Even now the bag is only a little over half full.

“_______...” he protests weakly, but you sit down heavily next to him, leaning your head onto his shoulder.

“Hush now, I wish things were different, but they aren’t. I can’t keep you safe anymore, and neither can Steve, for now, but SHIELD can.”

“I don’t want to leave.” He rasps, dropping his head so it rests lightly on yours.

“They’re trying to take down HYDRA. Maybe you could help them; get some of that redemption you’re looking for.” You murmur instead of all the other things you could have said, from empty platitudes to ill-timed confessions. This is not the moment for that. You allow yourself another moment to savor the closeness before you have to say goodbye.

“You’ll be safe?”

You nod mutely, not trusting your voice any more. There’s a good chance you’ll break down into heaving sobs again. Steve and Sam will remain close by, looking out for you in case of any HYDRA activity.

There’s a knock at the door then, jarring you both from the relative if deceitful peace of the moment.

“Yeah?” you croak, moving barely an inch away from James’ comforting warmth. Skye pokes her head in. 

“You ready, Sarge?”

James rises by way of an answer, grabbing the bag and stepping past her and collecting the last few odds and ends on his way before zipping the bag up. You can hear the men all talking quietly by the kitchen, no doubt to fill James in on the plan. You shoot Skye a miserable look, and she’s at your side and pulling you into a fierce hug in a heartbeat.

“Promise me to look out for him.” you choke out between dry sobs, clinging to your best friend. It occurs to you that she will be going away again as well, leaving you basically alone.

“And promise me you’ll call.” You amend. She does promise all this and more, comforting you a moment longer until Jemma hesitantly knocks and tells you that they really must be going. The young Englishwoman seemed more embarrassed about that than anything else. Skye gently disentangles herself from you, promising to call as soon as they’ve arrived at that super secret mystery base, turns back at the door to give you one last bone-crushing hug and then she’s gone. You sit a moment, staring into nothing, until a small warm weight settles next to you and big cat eyes are gazing up at you woefully. You sigh and pat her head.

 

James went through the motions like on autopilot, not really listening closely to the steady stream of forcedly cheerful chatter from the two young women. He’d said a short goodbye to Steve and his friend, apologizing to the latter for throwing him off a flying helicarrier.

“Hell, you wrecked my car, I kicked you in the head, you kicked me off that carrier – as far as first meetings go it’s not ideal, but hey, water under the bridge if you’re game, man.”

They shook hands, and James decided that Sam was probably a pretty decent guy.

And then he was herded towards a nondescript large vehicle and into the back like a child on a day trip. Skye and Jemma squeezed in next to him on the bench while he was introduced to Agents May and Triplett. The latter was charming and the former civil, and too soon they were moving and he looked out the window until your apartment building disappeared from view.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, that's it for act one^^ You may now yell your feelings at me. Don't hold back.  
> Seriously, don't. Have at me. Bring it on. Gimme all you got. I broke my arm thrice and I once broke my toe on a metal bed frame, I can take it.


	25. Blanket Excuse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, did u know u can subscribe to your own story? I'm not conceited I just slipped, honest to any deity you can name.  
> also like half of this was written while I was down (still am) with a nasty cold, so if it's shit, that is why. blame the germs for so maliciously assaulting me  
> Okay, thank you for the lovely feedback last time. It's always especially gratifying to get new readers, too, so welcome to whatever this is, all ye new subscribers, bookmarkers and first-time commenters *flourish*  
> (ps. you don't have to leave it at one comment, you know. go wild. let loose.)  
> also, trigger warning: distraught cat  
> And now, without further ado, the continuing adventures of James Barnes and several other MCU characters:

_A luminary clock against the sky_  
_Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right,_  
_I have been one acquainted with the night._

_\- Acquainted with the Night, Robert Frost_

* * *

 James pretended to be asleep for most of the lengthy drive simply to not have to speak to anyone. If they noticed, they were content to let him sulk, at least. He learned a few things during these hours, like the fact that _‘This would all be much easier if we still had jets’_ , a number of games beyond _‘I spy with my little eye…’_ (most notably one with no apparent point or end other than being the first to spot any yellow cars, which was eventually abandoned due to lack of traffic) or the fact that by withholding his vote he could damn the entire population of the vehicle to an audiobook of The Wizard of Oz (Extended Edition).

“There is a Russian version of this.” He remarked absently after Dorothy met the cowardly lion, “There must be more than ten volumes all in all.”

“I didn’t think they’d let you read, well, anything.”

He cracked an eye open to glance at Skye and shrugged. No, they wouldn’t have. HYDRA had other concerns than the entertainment of its asset. Not that he could remember reading those books, or any books at all; it was just that the story streaming forth from the car’s sound system was familiar in a way that was too true to be fake. He knew something of what certainty felt like by now. He knew he was right, he just didn’t know how he came by that knowledge.

Well, if he’d gotten good at anything it was bottling up even the most pervasive feelings of disturbance. Especially in front of a crowd of essential strangers.

“Forget I said anything.” He muttered and adjusted his head, trying – and failing – to keep his thoughts from drifting to the place he’d left behind. You wouldn’t like him internalizing like this, but you weren’t here. And neither was Becky, who seemed to have a built in homing device that alerted her whenever he was growing more distressed than usual. Or Steve, who was, though James’ memories of him were tenuous at best, still the only connection to the person he once might have been.

The reality of it suddenly hit him like a punch to the gut. He hadn’t even said goodbye before running away like a coward in the night (and of course he couldn’t bring himself to say his goodbyes because that would have made it real, only it was real regardless). The seat belt was too tight suddenly, and it seemed to only get tighter and more suffocating the more he fumbled with it but he also can’t bring himself to stop, to give up. He barely hears the urgent calls of ‘Stop! Stop the car!’ and before he knows it he’s kneeling on the side of a highway smack dab in the middle of nowhere, forehead against the pleasantly chill metal of the van, gulping breaths fogging the black veneer. The flashes were visceral and disorienting, vivid and choppy – an old mission or several gone awry, bleeding into one, a battlefield in winter with shelling all around, mud and blood and _noise_ , the weightless fall of the wreckage of a burning helicarrier, the chair, the damn chair with its crackling electricity and unyielding shackles, cold, seeping down into his very bones, cold, cold, cold like death…

It’s the screeching of metal on metal that finally manages to snap him back to the present. His left arm was pressed to the side of the vehicle beside his head, a pattern of dents exactly matching to his palm and fingertips and the seatbelt still tangled around it.

Well, damn. What a great start.

And then, of course, there was the pounding headache. Had his stomach not been completely empty at this point he could have added _‘puking your guts out’_ to the growing list of how badly this was going. It’s the small things.

 

Skye moved instinctually, not even sure what she was even about to do. Put a comforting hand on his quaking shoulder? Hug him? That had worked when you did it but she had a feeling the effect wasn’t as easily transferable. It didn’t matter, because as soon as James registered the movement in his peripheral vision he flinched violently and raised his arms in defense, letting out a desperate, distressed little noise.

“Sorry! Sorry, hey, Sarge, it’s me, Skye, it’s just me.” She babbled mindlessly but in a soothing tone, trying to mimic what she’d seen you do earlier. He was still heaving shallow breath after shallow breath, shaking with one arm wrapped around himself while the other remained cautiously raised to shield him. Skye looked helplessly at the other members of her team, who had hesitantly made their way outside the vehicle after the hasty stop.

“What do we do? What do we DO?” Skye hissed, sending an imploring look at Jemma, who looked concerned and shaken, at May, who looked stoic yet sympathetic, at the men, who just looked lost. For a bunch of people who’d been through as much as they had, they were being remarkably clueless.

“I’m fine, I’m fine, I just …need a moment.” Barnes gasped next to her, still heaving but with clear eyes again. He twisted around so was sitting on the road instead of kneeling, rested his head back against the car and covered his face with both hands, forcing himself to take slower and deeper breaths.

“Let’s give Sergeant Barnes some space.” May suggested quietly, and the team trudged away, no doubt no further than the other side of the car, but it was the thought that counted. Skye made to leave, too, but he stopped her with the sheer force of his wounded puppy dog eyes.

“Stay, please. Can you …can you please stay?”

The man was something like her childhood hero after all, how could she possibly deny him? not even speaking of her promise to you. Skye flopped down beside him, leaning back against the wheel and stretching her legs out on front of her.

“You’re not fine though, are you?”

“No,” he answered after a pause, voice already a bit steadier, “I’m not …not fine as in alright, but fine as in ‘I’ll manage’.” He paused a moment to hold a breath, rubbing his eyes and temples and unfolding his legs to mirror her, then released the air with slow deliberation.

They spent some minutes just staring up at the sky, mapping out the few billowy clouds and the odd bird here and there.

“This used to be much worse.” James said, loudly enough for the rest of the team to hear. Skye didn’t really know how to respond to this, so she simply nodded. He could interpret that how he wished. He grinned humorlessly, deliberately dispelling the lingering tension from his shoulders with a couple more deep breaths.

“________ used to say that the worst was behind me, no matter how bad it felt now.” He shifted a bit, sparing her a quick glance before staring out at the wide open plain in front of them again, voice dropped back to a conversational volume. “It feels bad though, then again it feels a little less bad with every time.”

“She’s a sensible woman.” Skye supplied, unsure why he was confiding in her but willing to help. “I can count the times she was wrong about these kinds of things on one hand and I’ve known her for over twenty years.”

That, at last, drew a real smile from him, small as it was. “She is. She’s … she’s wonderful.”

Skye almost said something thoughtless about long-distance relationships, but bit her tongue at the last moment, instead mumbling a _‘Yeah, she’s the best’_. She had no right to presume, and the two of you hadn’t talked about whether or not you even harbored any of those kinds of feelings (though if she knew you at all, she was pretty certain that you did), or anything beyond that. Something she would definitely need to rectify when you next spoke, she resolved.

“You okay to go on, Sarge? It’s not far to the base now.”

James nodded, already getting back to his feet, then extending a hand to help her up.

“Sorry about that.” He said to the rest of the team as they made to get back into their seats, and was collectively waved off.

“Nothing to be sorry for, Sergeant Barnes.” Coulson assured him. everyone buckled back up and they were on their way again.

 

They arrived at the Playground just as the sun started to set. The compound lay concealed, most of it underground though there wasn’t a sign of civilization for miles around it. Inside, they were met by a small man bordering on rotund, who had all the verve and joviality of a concierge as he handed James a laminated card on a string.

“Um, thanks?” he answered vaguely, fingers knotting into the band while he shifted the duffel bag on his shoulder.

“The director was so free as to call ahead.” The man, who had introduced himself as Agent Koenig, replied. James turned the card over in his hand. It wasn’t much, just an old photo, probably from his military records seeing as it was black and white still, his full name, the designation ‘consultant’, and a plethora of numbers and abbreviations he didn’t have the nerve to try and make sense of right now.

“Oh, you’ve got your lanyard!” Jemma exclaimed while walking by, shooting him a quick smile.

“The lanyard is paramount.” Trip declared from his other side, winking conspirationally. There was a joke here that he wasn’t getting, but he couldn’t find it in him to care much at present. He thanked Agent Koenig again with more sincerity and clutched his lanyard tightly. The two senior agents had excused themselves upon arrival, leaving him with Trip, Skye and Jemma.

“So, um, what now?” he dares ask, and just like he dared to try and defend himself earlier, even if it was just from the images in his mind, it feels strangely triumphant.

“Well, I’m wrecked honestly.” Skye starts, stretching her arms over her head, “We’ll just show you the essentials – you know: kitchen, showers, common room…”

“Definitely the kitchen. I’m starving!” Trip interjected passionately. James could definitely second that sentiment. He hadn’t really eaten anything since leaving your place.

“But first we should probably show you to your room, leave you to settle down. Besides, I promised _________ to call. You wanna talk to her, too?”

Yes, he did very much want that. He followed the young agents out of the garage and along some corridors. He tried mapping them out in his mind, to get a feeling for the layout of the facility. It’s not especially effective, but it does a little in the way of calming him in this unfamiliar environment.

The room they take him to is small and bare of any personal touches, but there’s a bed and a desk, two wall shelves and even a night stand as well as a small adjoining bathroom with all the essentials minus a shower or bathtub. He set the duffel down beside the pile of bedding and sheets and took a moment to look around. He hadn’t had a room of his own in …well, actually never really. At least not that he remembers. Certainly not at HYDRA unless one counted the cryo cell. Before that, there’d been tents or barracks during the war when they were lucky, dirt holes or the like more often than not and the occasional barn or cellar. And when he was a boy he’d shared a bedroom with his siblings, not that he’d minded that terribly, he thinks. But this is nice.

A quiet click startled him out of his reverie. He looked up to see Skye fumbling with her phone, looking a tad apologetic and a trace embarrassed.

“Sorry, I just wanna send ________ a little message. I promised to call when we arrive, but then I thought why not send her a photo? As evidence, if you will. What say you?”

James pointed at himself wordlessly, raising his eyebrow in question. Skye shrugged, growing flustered.

“Yeah, no, forget I asked. It’s just she can be a bit of a worry wart and I know she’d like to know you got here alright.”

He stepped back out of the room, eyeing the cell phone curiously as he slipped the lanyard’s string over his head absently.

“No, its …it’s a good idea. How do we …?”

“Oh, shush, I’ll take it, I’ll take it.” Jemma eventually acquiesced, taking the device from Skye’s nervous hands and telling them where to stand. James found himself smiling softly when he thought of you, even though the strain of the previous days was really starting to catch up to him.

“We can still call her though, right?” he asked after Jemma had snapped the picture and it had passed Skye’s scrutiny. He wanted to hear your voice, make sure you were holding up alright and most of all safe.

“Sure, yeah, of course.” Skye muttered absently while typing a message to go along with the photos.

“Dinner first!” Trip all but whined, clutching at his stomach dramatically. “Man, I hope Mack made some mac’n’cheese while we were gone.”

It turned out Mack did, and there were leftovers aplenty.  

After James and Skye had left with the other agents, Sam and Steve stayed awhile to keep you company. Though in Steve’s case you guessed he needed it as much as you did, perhaps more. You couldn’t imagine one afternoon and a dinner invitation would cut it. Eventually, they left, leaving you to half a night of fitful sleep frequently interrupted by dejected wailing.

“I know, B. I miss him, too.” you told the cat, who looked at you with big sorrowful eyes before launching into another crying fit.

The next day was spent mostly moping and cleaning to distract yourself from moping, comforting your distressed cat, and trying not to drown in the sudden emptiness of your apartment.

Since you had no idea where that secret base was, and therefore how long it would take them to arrive there, you kept your phone close at all times, checking it frequently, but all you got were a few updates from Sam, who was busy laying red herrings with Steve.

Eventually, Monday rolled back around and you had to go back to work. You tried to pretend that nothing was wrong, but Pam called you out on it.

“Did he dump you? Because if he did I am going to kick his perfect ass.” That, at last, made you grin. Pam had that effect on people.

“I told you we’re not together. He just …he had to leave eventually. I’ll be fine.”

“If you say so, boss…”

And then, there was a curt e-mail from your boss.

 _‘You have some nerve,’_ it read, _‘And the worst is, I can’t even chew you out because I would have pretty much done the same. Just don’t think you’re getting off the hook that easily.’_ There was a long list of attachments, all of them highest priority work assignments. You sighed. At least that would keep you busy and therefore distracted for a while.

It wasn’t until later one evening that your phone finally hummed showing Skye’s caller ID.

 _‘Finally there,’_ it read, _‘only one small meltdown on the road, but he says he’s fine. Also, I think he likes his room.’_ There was a photo of James attached. He was standing in a small, furnished room looking pensive. _‘Going to have some dinner now. Call you for real in abt an hour?’_ The second photo seemed to have been taken by another person. It showed Skye and James standing side by side in front of that same room, both looking tired but were smiling. You wanted, so much, to just dial the number and call right now, but you paced yourself and only typed out a reply.

_‘Call whenever ready, I’ll wait. Enjoy dinner. Can I forward your message to Steve? He’ll want to know.’_

_‘Sure, just reached kitchen.’_ Attached was another photo, obviously covertly taken, of James sitting with a full plate and listening to Jemma with polite attention. _‘Talk to you soon. Have a feeling Sarge won’t let me forget it.’_

You grinned, already feeling a lot lighter than you had the previous few days, and sent back a few emojis before forwarding the first text and photos to Steve.

James was finding it increasingly difficult to keep his eyes open, but the thought of hearing your voice again helped him through dinner. Thankfully there was no one else in the kitchen when they arrived; he was already highly strung enough as it was without the added stress of dealing with even more strangers. That would start the next day, as well as a number of medical tests.

“Nothing invasive,” Jemma had assured him, “I would just like to establish what they did to you.” And since that was something he was more than interested in himself, he resolved that he could do it even if it scared him. After their meal, Jemma and Trip excused themselves and Skye took him back to his room and helped him put on the sheets and bedclothes.

“No, honestly, how many blankets can you possibly need?” Skye exclaimed emphatically after straightening the edge of blanket number six. James shrugged. The compound held a kind of perpetual chill due to being underground but even more than that he needed to compensate for being alone, not that she needed to know that at this point.

“Have you ever been frozen, Agent Skye?” he said instead, “Not just cold, but actually frozen solid, with ice in your veins and frost on your skin? Because I am intimately familiar with the sensation.” He could still feel it sometimes, even now, and without even the surprisingly warm feline company of Becky he would have to make do.

“Whoa, intense. Okay, point taken. Now let’s ring up ________ so we can all go to sleep.”  Skye replied, yawning demonstratively as she hit dial and put her phone on speaker. It barely rang a second time before you picked up.

“Hey, hello, good evening!” you sounded just a tad out of breath, which was due to you all but lunging for your phone because when it finally did ring you had left it lying on the coffee table and gone to pour yourself something to drink.

“Hey ________, you’re on speaker.”

“Oh, okay. You there too, Jamie?”

“I’m right here.” He said, his voice sounding strange even to his own ears.

“Well, it’s late and you guys must be exhausted. I just wanted to know that you got there alright. I don’t mean to keep you.”

“Yeah, I mean I know I am. Basically doing nothing but sitting in a car all day shouldn’t be as tiring as it actually is, and I managed to take a nap every now and then, unlike some.” Skye gave him a pointed look at this, making James deflate a bit. Seemed like his acting skills weren’t quite as up to par as he’d hoped. He started practicing right then and there by pretending to be unfazed by the comment. You sighed, and he could just about picture your expression. Then there was a thump and a wailed meow, along with a startled yelp from you.

“_______, everything okay?” he shot up, as if he could do something from hundreds of miles away.

“Yeah, it’s just Becky. She’s been crying basically non-stop since you left. I think her little kitty heart is broken. She must have heard your voice.” Another woeful meow accentuated your words. James gulped hard. He missed the both of you already and he wasn’t even sure when the little furball had taken up residence in his heart. But strangely he already knew that it would be next to impossible to sleep without that solid feline weight on his chest, her fluffy tail swishing across his face every so often during the night.

He made the mistake of speaking, causing another distressed cat whine to erupt through the line, louder than the ones before. Skye had actually begun to drift off, and jarred awake at the shrill sound. James felt slightly guilty to be keeping the young woman up and half considered asking to borrow the phone so he could talk to you more, but he’d already asked for the extra blankets and these people had done so much for him with no expectation of reward that he didn’t dare.

“Well, I just wanted to check in. Thanks for calling. Maybe we can talk longer tomorrow?” you seemed to have picked up on Skye’s exhausted state as well; you were probably tired yourself seeing as it was rather late at night by this point.

“Sounds good, ________. We’ll figure something out. Sweet dreams!” Skye said quickly, suppressing another yawn. James barely had time to get his goodbyes in and then the line was dead. Skye rose unsteadily, wishing him a good night when she reached the door.

“My room is just two doors down the hall, if you need anything. Good night.”

James thanked her and not a minute later he found himself completely alone again, trying to quiet his frantic mind. He was tired out both physically and mentally, but the stress of being in an unfamiliar place among strangers did little to calm him. He did eventually drift off into a sound, dreamless sleep though.

 

The next day found him following Jemma down to her lab after a hearty breakfast and a quick tour of the compound. There was no one else in the lab when they entered, save for a young man sat on a workbench at the very back who looked mildly spooked by their presence.

“That’s Fitz, he’s in charge of engineering here.” His eyes darted up to them when Jemma spoke, only to turn back to the small piece of machinery he was fidgeting with a moment later. Jemma sighed.

“Fitz!” she spoke up, “This is Sergeant Barnes. At least say hello.”

At this he started, but trod over dutifully.

“Leo Fitz, engineering. Hello.” He said hesitantly, voice quavering around the unmistakable Scottish accent. It seemed to James that he was struggling to form the words.

“Pleased to meet you.” James answered politely. Fitz shrugged, unable to meet either of their eyes.

“I’ll …I’ll be, um, over at, um, …” he gestured vaguely down the hall, then stepped away abruptly, leaving Jemma looking quietly devastated. She tried to downplay it by shuffling through the things on her desk, which included several papers about neurology. James picked up one by a Doctor Strange before it could fall to the floor.

“So, um, how exactly…”

“Well, I would like to do the full medical works, but it’s a bit much to do in one day. I thought we’d start easy with me taking some blood and x-rays…”

She went on to explain the procedures she wanted to do, and James already felt his heart rate quickening, the anxiety rising at the back of his throat.

“Hey – hey, Sergeant Barnes? Are you quite alright?” her small hand placed bravely on his arm grounded him enough to pull him back from spiraling down the rabbit hole of his memories. He was almost embarrassed; Dr Simmons and her cluttered lab had next to nothing in common with the people who had treated him like nothing but a test subject, and yet the simple association was apparently enough to send him spinning.

“Would it help if I talked you through it?” Jemma asked sympathetically after maneuvering him into a seat. He swallowed hard and nodded.

“Okay, good. You can always tell me to stop if it becomes too much, I mean that.”

James nodded again, gratefully this time. He could do this. He could be brave enough for a few simple medical tests. HYDRA didn’t own him anymore and this was currently his best shot at finding out what they’d done to him.

 

Dr Simmons did a plethora of tests – physical, cognitive, testing reactions and reflexes – most of it was simple and she seemed quite optimistic over his results. She also did a number of scans, the results of which wouldn’t be available until a few days later. By lunchtime, he was thoroughly spent despite not having done all that much. They had lunch together and after that Coulson asked him into his office for a briefing. Thankfully their ideas about what James would be doing here were largely in line, mostly because James had no concept of the kind of work that was required. He would mostly work with Skye and Agents May and Triplett, going through old paperwork and new leads alike, as well as the data from the files that had been released to the public during the fall of SHIELD. Even if the material didn’t jog his memories he could still be useful in sighting, and in some cases, translating the documents.

He was also introduced to the remaining agents at the base. There were less than he’d anticipated, and not all of them field agents, which was a security concern in case the base was attacked.

“Would you like to say a few words, Sergeant Barnes?” Coulson turned to him after making his introductions, effectively startling him out of his musings on defensive planning. James shrunk a bit under the gazes directed at him. Most of the faces were neutral and none outright hostile, but he was under no illusion that these people had no reason to trust him. He knew he would have been wary had he been in their place.

“Um, sure,” he stepped forward, clearing his throat. Skye sent him a little thumbs up. “I realize this must be a lot to take in – I know it was for me –“ some chuckling. That was good, right? “I also realize that none of you really got a choice about having me dumped into your midst, but I promise that I will do whatever I can to help you bring down HYDRA, so, um, thanks for having me.”

“You did well.” Agent May graciously admitted later, and since she didn’t seem like the kind of woman to dole out praise indiscriminately, he felt a lot better after she said it. Really, all in all the remaining SHIELD agents did their utmost to make him feel welcome, which was more than he could ever have asked for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I'm doing pretentious poetry prefaces now...  
> The book series mentioned does in fact exist. It's a retelling of the Wizard of Oz story, first by Alexander Volkov, later continued by other authors. The first one of those was published in 1939, but from what I could find out the real success came when the books were re-published in the 60s, with translations also being published in other Eastern Block states. There's way more than ten, like WAY more, and they haven't all been translated. I started reading them when I was still a child, but I never got through all, but I remember that I liked them a lot. I'm not sure there are English translations though.  
> The original novel by Lyman Frank Baum however was first published in 1900 and the movie was released in 1939, and I am like 200% certain Steve and Bucky went to see it then (in fact, in the German dub of the first Avengers movie, he says he saw the movie, ya know, after Fury asks how Loki could turn Clint & Co into his 'personal flying monkeys'. The Reference Scene - infamous.)  
> The question that remains then, of course, is why he remembers the one he shouldn't necessarily know over the other. Write your theories in the comment section for I am curious if anyone guesses right.
> 
> And lastly, the bad news: next weekend I'm visiting my parents and they have *something* planned, so I don't know that I'll find the time to write. Sorry :(  
> on the bright side I am planning to make the chapters much longer


	26. Tempus ante Quem

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay lovely people, the good news is that here's chapter 26. The bad news is that I have no entered the period of final exams and therefore have to take a hiatus of 2-3 weeks :(  
> the chapter is 5000+ words to sustain you until then, hopefully  
> also a big fluffy thank you to all commenters, kudo-ers and bookmarkers, and a warm welcome to all new readers. I hope you'll continue to enjoy the story and I hope I'll figure out how to juggle the story arcs I have in mind.

_The woods are lovely, dark and deep,_   
_But I have promises to keep,_   
_And miles to go before I sleep,_   
_And miles to go before I sleep._   
_-Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening, Robert Frost_

* * *

 

James Barnes was nothing if not adaptable. The fact that he was still alive seventy years after his first death bore sufficient testament to the fact that he was a survivor. Then again it might have just been the fact that he was too stubborn to die, at least that’s what his mother would have said. Well, it was her he had inherited that particular trait from, so she would know.

In any case, it’s not like the transition from hidden stowaway in your apartment to slightly more hidden and slightly less stowaway at the Playground is all too jarring, for the most part. He settled into a sort of routine with surprising ease. Not that there was much to settle in to, truth be told. Between reviewing miles upon miles of documents both paper and digital and going over the results of his tests with Dr Simmons, he was not exactly being worked to exhaustion. In fact, he was probably the least busy person on the entire base. Not that he had any urgent yearning to go out on missions. There was no telling what HYDRA might have buried in the recesses of his subconscious and seeing how even the simplest everyday things could set him off James didn’t exactly volunteer to venture out into that kind of environment. If he lost control in any way there was no telling what would happen; he couldn’t risk it even if there had been any offer to participate in field work. Which there wasn’t. Seemingly Coulson had the same worries.

This, combined with the fact that his sleeping pattern was still sketchy at best, left James with more free time than he knew what to do with. He made copious use of the gym and firing range though. It was never stupid to be prepared, and knowing HYDRA they wouldn’t hesitate to take the fight to him. Besides, he had gotten obscenely out of shape these past few months. After the first three days of lugging around dusty file boxes and attacking punching bags he had trouble lifting a spoon. Which the younger agents seemed to find infinitely amusing.

“I’m an old man. You need to cut me some slack.” He grumbled, feeling every single one of his 96 years. Even if Jemma staunchly maintained that physically he wasn’t even past thirty.

“How old are you all, anyway?” They looked impossibly young to him, even Trip. The first time he’d seen Fitz he’d honestly wondered whether the young Scot shouldn’t still be in school.

“Older than you were when you went to war.” Skye muttered, buttering her toast absently and rather sloppily. They weren’t getting as far with the old SSR files as they’d like, and it was making her cranky to have to wade through cryptic notes on nameless soldiers in old Red Army records.

James mumbled something about kids these days and respecting your elders into his porridge and left it at that.

 

After that, he went with Jemma to her lab, where Fitz scurried away with a few stuttered half-excuses as soon as he caught sight of them.

“It’s not you.” Jemma said thickly, already shuffling through her tablet to pull up the various scans she did of his skull and brain. James tore his eyes from the now empty doorway, then quickly moved to close the door, still unconvinced. He had seen the two of them together before (ignoring each other a third of the time and engaged in some argument or other another third, and thick as thieves for the rest). They shared this lab space after all. It was only when James came in for his tests and results that the young engineer left. Jemma sighed.

“If it’s you then only because he wants to give you some privacy. But more likely it’s me. There was a …a thing that happened during the fall of SHIELD-“ she shudders a moment before that stiff upper lip comes through and James finds himself wondering if failure to produce the Stiff Upper Lip TM is grounds for denaturalization from the United Kingdom. The force of Monty’s, combined with that certain air of disdain he had, once pushed the Commandos through a grueling trek during a storm. At night. Through the Ardennes. In hindsight it seemed like the sheer force of one man’s disapproval was what propelled them from behind enemy lines to the relative safety of a Résistance encampment.

Jemma is now clearing a spot on her desk, so James pulls himself back from the hazy memory and focuses on the holographic image of his skull morbidly floating a few feet in the air. There is no way he’ll get the story from the young doctor now. Maybe Trip will be more open about relaying what the team went through back then. James tells himself firmly that he doesn’t want to know this because he feels responsible.

Well, he’s equally curious about what the hell happened to him in those past seventy years, so he fidgets with his lanyard and stares at the projection, which is spinning ever so slowly. It tells him nothing.

“So, this is a severe fracture right here,” Jemma explains, pointing out a faint ridged line that runs along the bone, forking out in a handful of places. “But it healed quite well, even though an injury of this degree is usually fatal even with the proper care.”

James shuddered. The ridge was long, enormous even. His head would have been cracked open like an egg. Had been, in fact. He can just about feel the dull thudding in his head, feel the cold, the numbness. His arm is giving him grief, too.

“The trauma would have been considerable…” she paused, furrowing her brows, then put up a couple of other scans, eyes flicking between the images.

“Do you see this?” she continued, highlighting an area in an impressively lifelike translucent 3D model of a human brain. His brain, which left him somewhere between impressed and queasy. The area she indicated was a large cluster of dense matter.

“What am I seeing?” he asked.

“Scar tissue, but it’s in layers. There are traces of a constant healing process until the next trauma overwrites that progress.”

“The wipes.” He said tonelessly, hand twitching in search of furry feline comfort and only finding the thin plastic of the lanyard he wore around his neck. The more he stared at the hologram the easier it became to pick out similarly damaged areas. There were _a lot_ of those. He swallowed hard, twisting the lanyard’s cord around his finger absently.

“So basically my brain is mush.” He decreed morosely. Well, that would explain the headaches, he supposed.

“No, nonono I wouldn’t say that!” Jemma was quick to interject, but while he appreciated the sentiment that sent her off on a tangent about his extraordinary healing factor and more statistics than he could ever hope to process, _broken, broken and pitiful; you are a broken, useless thing and a burden. Even the one thing you were built for you can’t do anymore. You don’t deserve their kindness._ On the outside, he just nods along politely.

 

The ‘research’ room is in just as much of a state of contained chaos as it has been since before he arrived, and so far it feels like all they’re doing is shifting boxes around. There are no leads on current HYDRA activity, nothing to add to the wall of cork and pinned pictures at the far side of the room. The pictures on the wall are of known HYDRA agents, some of which he knows, some of which he has even taken out himself for the benefit of some or other internal power struggle. Coulson had been surprised to learn how paranoid they were at the top there. Surprised, yet quietly delighted of James hadn’t completely lost his edge. The thing was that there was no unified corpus of operatives, but a factionalized network of cells and branches only now coming back into their own after burrowing into every worthwhile target on earth for the last seven decades, heads upon heads to cut off and no body. And so far they were even having trouble finding the heads.

“What is this even doing here!” Skye exclaimed after reviewing yet another box only to find it half full of notes in messily scrawled Cyrillic script. James wasn’t even through with deciphering the yield of the last two boxes, let alone translate them, nevertheless he fished the brittle paper out and stacked it neatly on the pile next to him.

* * *

You kept yourself occupied with work in order not to have to deal with how empty your apartment was now. You get calls regularly, speaking with both James and Skye every few days, but it just isn’t enough and it somehow never last long enough. Also, courtesy of this whole absurd situation, your closest childhood friend now had Captain America on speed dial. It wasn’t your job to act as a go-between for the estranged friends. It wasn’t that you didn’t care – you _did_ , a _lot_ – but around two weeks in the constant _‘Have you heard from Bucky? What did he say?’_ -calls were getting out of hand. Their conversations now never lasted as long as Steve would have probably liked, but they happened and that’s what mattered.

So it comes as no small surprise to you when the good Captain appears at your door on a Friday evening, asking you to accompany him on a road trip to meet with James’ last living relatives that weekend. Somehow you’ve said yes before your brain has fully processed this information. Steve smiles in relief.

“So, who are we meeting again?” you ask the next morning, taking a sip from your thermos of coffee because apparently doing things with Steve Rogers means starting to do said things at an obscenely early time in the day, even on the weekend.

“Her name is Grace, she’s a biology teacher in Rhode Island and she is Bucky’s older sister’s granddaughter.” Steve rattles off, for all intents and purposes far too awake. Ugh. Does America know their golden boy is a morning person? “I mean of the older one of his younger sisters. The younger one never had children and his brother fell in Korea.” He amends quickly. There’s a sadness in his eyes and it occurs to you that James’ younger siblings were people he knew as children, grew up with, even only saw being born and they still all died before him.

“Tell me about them.” You say gently, seeing as you have a seven hour drive in front of you.

“Did Bucky never…?” he trails off, eyes flicking to you quickly before settling on the road again. You shake your head.

“He doesn’t remember, not yet or not enough anyway.” And he hadn’t wanted to look any of it up before it came back to him by itself.

“I just thought because of the cat-”

“What on earth does our cat have to do with this?” you gave him a look that you hoped would dissuade him from any remarks on how you’d just called her ‘our’; the slip had startled you as soon as it was out.

“It’s just – you said he named her and his sister’s name was Rebecca, Becky for short.”

“Oh …Oh!”

“Hmm …alright, so there was Becky, then Rose was born in ’25 and the youngest was Julian, but everyone just called him Jules…”

 

In the end you fell back asleep during the drive, only waking when Steve pulled up in front of a cute little two-story house with a large backyard. The first thing that greets the two of you is a striped Scottish fold cat trying to herd her kittens out of or into a flowerbed, it isn’t really clear to tell.

“Oh, you’re here!” a voice called from the front porch. You looked up from the kittens only to reel a moment. The woman standing in the doorway looked strikingly similar to James that she might have well been his sister, except with warm brown eyes and an even warmer smile.

“I hope traffic wasn’t too bad.” The woman said kindly, holding open the door for you and Steve, “I sent my husband away with the kids for the weekend, so we won’t be disturbed. They’re visiting the grandparents.” She smiled softly as she closed the door and led you down a short hallway and into the den. You barely had time to take in the pictures on the walls.

“It’s very kind of you to receive us, Mrs Proctor.” Steve said politely.

“Oh please, call me Grace,” she waved him off, already vanishing into the half-open kitchen to brew some coffee, “If that’s not too forward? I know we’re only meeting in person for the first time today, but between Nana’s stories and our correspondence I feel like I know you already.”

Steve smiles softly, accepting his coffee cup with a quiet ‘thanks’. “Call me Steve, then.” He turns to you. “This is Miss _______. She’s …um … a mutual acquaintance.”

“_______ is completely fine.” You interject, wanting in on the newly established first name basis. Grace smiles a moment before her expression becomes conspirational and she leans in slightly over the counter.

“So, he’s really still alive? And you found him?”

Steve nodded, a little sadly, and Grace let out a long sigh.

“I know this is probably confidential and you’re already telling me more than you’re supposed to, but is he… How is he? What happened to him? Is he alright?” she said breathlessly, twisting her fingers in the thin gold band of her necklace. It wasn’t exactly difficult to figure out that they were talking about James. You exchanged a look with Steve before taking Grace’s fidgeting hands while he cleared his throat.

“You’re right, I can’t tell you that yet. He’s not really alright. The things he went through, that were done to him …I hope that in time… They meddled with his memory, made him forget who he was…” Steve’s voice faltered and by now there were tears glistening in Grace’s eyes.

“I used to wish that Nana was still alive to see this day from the moment you first called me, but now I’m beginning to think it may be better this way.” She sniffled a moment, wiping her eyes before straightening. “Alright, let me just fetch you the box.”

‘The box’, it turns out, is a large cardboard thing filled with odds and ends that had too much sentimental value to Rebecca Barnes Proctor to throw them away. There were photos and letters, old toys and books, James’ things from the war, sent home after his fall. You didn’t pry into the exact contents of the box; that was for him to do. Instead Steve and you stayed up talking with Grace until late in the evening, her recounting all her grandmother’s stories and Steve filling in where he could and just listening along with you to anything that happened after the war. You spent the night tucked away into a room that with shockingly blue walls and a continuous Star Wars theme while Steve did his time in mini dinosaur gallery. The next morning you got ready after a hearty breakfast during which you found out that the traditional Barnes pancake recipe had been dutifully passed down.

“When he’s ready could you … just tell him he’s always welcome here. Family has to stick together and Nana would have wanted it.” Grace said upon saying her goodbyes. Steve nodded.

“I will. Thank you, Grace.”

 

It was the week after that when Sam called you. You were just catching up on your household chores (left to accumulate now that your mentally unstable laundry fairy was absent; seriously, he even ironed the sheets. Who even does that? How bored was he?) when the phone rang. You wrestled two very determined pillowcases to get to it and picked up breathlessly, glad that you had caller ID.

“Heya, Sammy, what’s up? How’s your dad doing?” the elderly gentleman had been released from the hospital not long before, inadvertently giving his son a great cover to seemingly interrupt his search with Steve.

“Hey ______, he’s fine and saying that if he’d known he’d get a basket of your muffins out of it he’d have gotten a heart attack sooner.” You snorted in response. Supposedly Wilson Sr had suffered the attack while ‘accidentally switching to Fox News’ according to his son.

“So, any special reason for this call?” you ask, carefully pushing Becky off the edge of a freshly washed bedspread.

“It’s the Fourth of July next Friday-” Sam began. You had planned to spend the holiday moping with ice cream and a movie marathon, but his tone told you that he was about to proposition you with something else and, in his opinion, infinitely better.

“Yes, and?”

“It’s also Steve’s birthday.” Oh. _Oh!_ You vaguely remembered that detail from the museum exhibit.

“And since there’s currently no HYDRA activity anywhere close I thought it would be nice for him to just have a day to himself, celebrating with some friends, you know?” You did know, or at least you guessed. He put on a brave face but underneath one could see the exhaustion. You weren’t quite sure what qualified you for the friend position, but decided not to question it.

“And you were thinking what, exactly?” you said simply to mess with him while you were already mentally re-planning your next trip to the grocery store. It would be nice not eating the same thing for three nights in a row because you were still used to cooking for someone who ate for two.

“I, uh …just a small affair really, nothing big. Everyone’s out celebrating anyway, besides, Steve doesn’t exactly have an expansive social circle.”

“Shocking.” You comment flatly.

“I know right? It’s a bit sad really. So I was thinking…”

“You were thinking that you and I try to cheer him up on his birthday because everyone else he knows is either dead or in hiding.”

“Some are in New York, too.” he remarks in a small voice. It’s strangely endearing how thoughtful of Steve he is when he barely knew the man for much longer than you did James.

“Well, since my tiny apartment cannot possibly contain Tony Stark’s personality we’ll have to make do with just the two of us and a brooding cat.” You conclude, resigned.

“So, your place then?”

You sigh, in a way that is fond, but also resigned.

 

On the Fourth, Steve is visibly touched by your efforts.

“You shouldn’t have.” He tells you and Sam repeatedly. After the twentieth time or so he is told to _‘shut it and eat your damn cake, Rogers’_.

As soon as the sky darkens, you open the window wide to where you’ll easily be able to see the fireworks. Becky settles in Sam’s lap, meowing plaintively until he starts rubbing her belly. Then the fireworks start and you all fall silent, watching the swirling colors light up the sky. You’re too enraptured in the display to notice Steve going stiff next to you, wincing minutely at a particularly loud boom. You send him a questioning glance of the ‘you okay there?’ variety.

“I’m sorry – it’s …I used to love fireworks, the colors and bursting patterns…” his voice peters out and he flinches again at the next thunderous crack; Sam on your other side does too, but manages to mask it a bit better. It’s only then that it occurs to you that they’re both veterans and you immediately feel bad for not thinking of that earlier, especially considering your line of work. Suddenly, an idea strikes you and you clamber up and into the hall closet, digging until you find the objects of desire.

“Here.” You say simply, handing each man a pair of noise-cancelling headphones, which they take gratefully. It may not be a perfect solution, but then again it’s not a perfect situation.

* * *

When they’re not on missions there is a certain predilection for communal games, both video and board. Mack of mac’n‘cheese fame is always eager for opponents and since James is neither willing nor able to bear the silence of being alone for any longer than strictly necessary he lets himself be roped into almost anything by the incredibly tall mechanic, whose duties keep him on site at basically all times. So far James has learnt to wield rainbow road to devastating effect and the distress of his co-players.  

There is music playing in the background this time; it’s a mellow classical piece with pensive, almost mournful strings. James was from a musical family, his mother having ingrained a thorough knowledge and appreciation of the art in all her children. He didn't know this piece (frankly it sounded a bit too modern to be any of the Bach, Schubert, Vivaldi, Liszt, Chopin, Brahms, Corelli you name them his mother had made sure they were familiar with), but something about it rung eerily familiar. He couldn't put his finger on it, though, and thus forced himself to not dwell on it and instead focus on the game of Scrabble Mack had gently encouraged him, Fitz, Trip and Skye to participate in. Soon enough, the piece faded, just as he was dragged into a debate over whether or not Fitz's word was in fact admissible or not. Really, debate was too strong a word for the light teasing happening, nevertheless James found himself taking the young Scot's side out of pure instinct. In the end, they decided to count it and Skye was next, blocking the chance for James to put in his next word and earn no less than two triple points with lethal accuracy. With an internal sigh, he shifted his game pieces around in the search for a new combination. There was a rather promising 'R' on the board with quite some free space around it and pleasingly close to those winning squares. The recording in the background had moved on to a somewhat livelier piece with a lovely solo violin part. There was something about the way the violinist... The other's expectant faces brought him back to the plot and he realized that he must have been fidgeting with his letters for longer than commonly seen as acceptable. Fortunately they were as patient with him as they were with Fitz, which abated his frustration with himself infinitesimally. Flashing a small apologetic smile he looked down at what his hands had been doing with the letters while he had been too absorbed in the music. He quickly laid the letters out on the board, spelling the word 'rose' - a meaning-laden flower as well as a well-liked timeless girls' name. In fact his own sister, the younger of the two had been named-

"Oh! Of course, yes! Rosie!" Within a moment's notice, it all clicked into place. Apparently only for him, as he was met with four pairs of very confused eyes.

"The music," he pointed out, enigmatically, "It's... I think... Is there a way of finding out the names of the performers?"

He still wasn't making much sense to the SHIELD agents, he could see it, but Trip indulgently told him where to find the CD case and he went over to retrieve it.

"Solo violin: Rose Barnes," he read aloud, feeling a triumphant grin spread across his face. He'd been right, he'd remembered and recognized her by the way she played.

"Was that..."

"My little sister," James confirmed cheerfully, proudly adding, "She went to Juillard." There was even a short biography in the booklet, Rose Barnes, born in Brooklyn in 1925, graduating from the Juillard School with honors, went on to become a renowned solo performer in her own right after playing with the New York Philharmonic, founding member of all-female string quartet 'The Brooklyn Muses', notable lifelong peace activist, teaching master classes, etc etc. He could still see her as a young girl, always rather on the wiry side, hair swept back over one shoulder and her violin tucked under her chin with a look of fierce determination, lips pursed tight in concentration just like he himself always did.

"You still don't get extra points, Sarge." Skye was quipping, and he laughed it off good-naturedly.

He doesn't cry until he's back in his assigned quarters, back pressed up against the wall, alone. He took the CD case there with him, and looked at the photo in the booklet that shows his baby sister older than their mother was when he last saw her, and reads the dedication that says _'In remembrance of my beloved brothers, James and Julian'_.

 

Of course he can’t sleep after that. He lets the tears flow out of sight from anyone, then dozes a little in the hopes that his exhaustion is enough for even just a nap, but he has no such luck. Sighing, he grabbed a book off his night stand and made for the common room to while away the hours with tea and literature. Where he picked up the taste for tea, whether it was in England during the war or in Russia after, he has no way of telling.

It’s a testament to the gripping tale that his situational awareness is compromised to the point that he doesn’t notice Agent May until she plops down on the couch next to the one he’s curled up on, a tea cup of her own steaming on the coffee table between them.

"The Count of Monte Cristo," the senior agent remarked upon spying the volume in his hands. "For inspiration?"

James closed the book, weighing it in his hand pensively. It was a story famous for being about revenge. It made sense for the agents of the shadow-SHIELD to be wary of him and his possible intentions even without him leaving such blatantly obvious clues lying around. Except this wasn't what it appeared.

"You ever read it?" he asked in return, not really seeking to deflect her question.

"Abridged children's version when I was eleven or so." May replied, but he could tell she wasn't letting it go. And an abridged version? Tsk.

"Dumas is much underrated, as are many things that are wildly popular." he began, flicking through the pages at random. "It's not just a story about revenge, Agent May. It's a story about many things. It's also a story about identity. What do you think the relationship between Edmond and the Count is?"

She made no reply. He saw through her tactic at once; it was one of the oldest and simplest ploys in the books, but since they were not enemies and he wanted all of the agents to trust him he decided to indulge her.

"You see, the Count of Monte Cristo is a made-up person. He doesn't really exist, except he does. Edmond created him. The question is, are they two separate people? Is the Count just an alter ego he can summon and discard at will or is he a part of him that he can't deny, or escape?"

Realization sparked in her eyes as he spoke, as he had counted it would. James held the book out to her, offering it. She shook her head, saying that she had no time for reading as long as HYDRA was still on the loose, effectively closing the circle. He smirked and placed the heavy volume back in its previous place.

"It's not revenge I'm after. HYDRA must be taken down for good, and I'll help with that wherever I can, but I won't go out on a mad killing spree or anything of that sort. You can all rest assured."

 

 

Trip finds the Sergeant wandering the hallways at night, a nervous look in his darting eyes.

"Gabe!" the other man whisper-shouts as soon as he catches sight of him, "What's the hold-up? We're supposed to be halfway to Belgium already! Where's Dum Dum? Monty will never make it if we don't hurry! Did you get a hold of Miss Beatrice?"

It's all Trip can do not to take a hold of the man's shoulders. He's obviously lost in the tangles of his memories. His grandfather had told Trip much about their missions as he got older, but he can't for the life of him remember this story and thinks that maybe the Sergeant's brain is so muddled that he's mixing things up. Meanwhile James is still staring at the other man, shoulders tense and fists clenched by his sides, heart hammering away so hard that he can feel the blood rushing through his head.

"Look, we missed the rendezvous. We need the help. Try to get in contact with Miss Beatrice; her smuggler friends will be able to get us across the Channel. I'll go find Dugan."

"Sarge," Trip says earnestly, holding the other man back with a hand on his shoulder as he makes to jog off. "Sarge, what year is it."

"Gabe, we don't have time for this now. Monty is bleeding out in a barn halfway between Saverne and Sarreguemines!" he answers, irritated.

"Sarge," Trip says again, patient but firm, "What year is it?"

He sighs, wondering why his fellow soldier is being so obstinate.

"It's ninete-" even as he says it he knows that's not true. It's not 1944 and he's not in northern Alsace. And the man in front of him is not Gabriel Jones. He's too tall. He looks around a moment and finds he's not even in a barn. He looks at the hand he's clasped around the other man's forearm and almost jumps out of his skin to find it glinting in the dim light from a lamp further up the corridor.

“Whoa…” he breathes softly as his mind settles back into the present, reeling a moment. Trip’s hands on his shoulders are steadying him, their solid warmth grounding.

“So, sleepwalking?” the agent asks carefully.

“I’ll put it on the list.” James replies, allowing himself to lean against the other man tiredly for a moment. When they are about to turn into the hallway that’ll lead them to the sleeping quarters Agent May stops them, looking about as harried as someone as unflappable as she is can.

“Something’s come up. The team leaves at 0400,” that was an hour from then, roughly. She turned to James. “You need to come, too.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the classical piece they hear is this: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eNFL4Mz2ISY&index=1&list=FLsjUDIKISX5-51cFbtjLHFg
> 
> as always, leave me comments for they make me happy beyond description ;)


	27. All Hands On Deck

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all, did ya miss me? I sure did.  
> But hey, at least I passed my exams (now I only have two papers left to write)

_I dried my tears and armed my fears_   
_With ten thousand shields and spears_   
_-The Angel, William Blake_

* * *

 

James blinked once in surprise.

“Me???” Whatever could they possibly need him for? “I don’t have clearance for fieldwork.” He added lamely. Agent Coulson had been very specific about that point and he hadn’t argued. May levelled an impatient look at them that caused Trip to take off with an excuse, no doubt in search of his gear. Right, James didn’t even have gear. His Winter Soldier outfit had gone down a hospital garbage chute in scraps, not that he had any desire to put on the confining material again. Ever. God, he hated turtlenecks almost as much as spam.

“You’re not going into the field. We just need you for target confirmation.” Her look told him that she did not relish standing here and dealing with his confusion when she could be preparing for the mission. In which case, James thought, he probably shouldn’t have been accosted in the middle of the night without warning, though he didn’t say that part out loud.

“I probably won’t even remember who or whatever you want me to identify.” He protested weakly, but May was like a rubber wall. Everything bounced right off of her.

“We’re willing to take that risk.” She said curtly, already turning. “Be at the Bus at 4 and bring a coat.”

“What kind of coat?” It’s July, and it’s not like he had a wide wardrobe to choose from. “Where are we going?” July. There was something significant about July, a memory nudging at the surface of his subconscious but unable to break through. He’d deal with that later.

“Argentina.” May stated and vanished behind the next corner. James huffed, then got going.

 

Luckily, the plane had a decently equipped kitchen and some good soul had seen to it being stocked sufficiently. Since the flight would take several hours he took a little catnap (which was significantly more difficult to do without an actual cat), then busied himself with whipping up some breakfast for the team when they came filing in at a less ungodly hour.

“I feel like I need to mention that you didn’t have to do this,” May began.

“But we’re really glad you did, even if you’re shamelessly stealing _______’s recipes.” Skye added around a mouthful of egg.

“Well, most HYDRA recipes require a side of cyanide and I couldn’t find any of that anywhere, so…” he flinched as soon as the words left his mouth. Feeling the gazes from the three women – May, Skye as well as another female agent named Reyes had come with while Trip was currently piloting the plane – he ducked his head, suddenly very interested in his coffee.

“Was that …was that supposed to be a joke?” Skye chanced intrepidly, “Coz’ you have this whole ‘blank expression’ thing going on. It’s hard to tell. Not that we have a frame of reference, really.”

“I think it was, yeah.” He mumbled into the mug.

“Supposedly humor is a coping mechanism.” Agent Reyes supplied kindly, polishing off the rest of her bacon. James sent the woman a small, grateful nod before she went to relieve Trip of his flying duties so they could be briefed.

 

The mission itself, while rather straightforward, would have probably required at least one more agent, two if one really wanted to be safe. It struck James that he was still so used to planning for a team of seven, even after everything. Absently, he picked at some scratches on the plating of his arm as he listened to May detailing the parameters. The target was really the crux of the matter, a retired KBG officer with many names and no one left alive who knew what he looked like. No one save James, hopefully. No pressure.

“From what we could find out, he was high up in the Winter Soldier program. He must have at least known _of_ HYDRA, if he wasn’t actually part of it himself.”

“That seems unlikely.” James threw in. HYDRA was more one of those _‘members only’_ places. Then again the allegiance of those members was subject to expedience in more cases than one would probably assume.

Well, first they’d need to find the man. According to the sources, the Russian embassy was the way to go. They concealed the Bus in the river delta that formed the wilderness between Argentina and Uruguay, trekked to a small town named Campana and from there made their way into Buenos Aires, setting up in a safe house organized by Agent Reyes.

The worst part of that kind of mission was usually the waiting, but for James it was not being able to talk to you while they were there. All communication with the States was banned unless it was an emergency for fear of being tracked.

 

James scratched at his thickening stubble absently. He and Skye were sitting in a café with a good view of the street that led to the embassy’s front entrance, waiting. They had been doing this for a handful of days now, doing observation under the guise of whiling away the hours. Skye typed away on a laptop while he pretended to be going through miles of financial reports and the like. The beard was to conceal his face – the same reason he now wore plastic-rimmed glasses – but damn, it itched. They could do this for maybe two more days until it became suspicious. Maybe the target had already walked past them several times and James simply hadn’t recognized him. Maybe his brain had been damaged too badly and they were only wasting their time here. He took another sip of his tepid coffee and grimaced.

“Hey Stitch, Funk says new candidate at 10 o’clock.” Skye said casually, but lowly enough that only James could hear, equally as casually using her earpiece that was concealed under her long hair. James nodded lowly and let his gaze sweep over the street outside the window, where an elderly man with a distinct limp was making his way along the street, cane tapping along on the pavement. The man was just too bundled up to clearly make out his face, scarf wrapped around his face under his nose and a hat shadowing his eyes, but that limp was instantly familiar. James frowned over his coffee cup.

“I’m not sure…” he said vaguely, and Skye relayed his response to the rest of the team. The man stopped before he had fully neared the embassy building, standing and consulting his watch, waiting. Within five minutes, he was approached by another man, whose back was bent with age. They greeted each other curtly, talking closely among themselves for a moment. Their possible target leaned on his cane, nodding jerkily to what he was being told while the other man, shorter and slighter in stature, gesticulated urgently. When his acquaintance was finished he took off his hat, wiping his forehead with a tissue before pulling down the scarf to blow his nose.

“Kalyagin.” James said decidedly before his mind had even articulated the thought fully. He was older but he definitely recognized that face, the sharp eyes and the strict pull of the mouth. In the background, he vaguely heard Skye tell the other agents to stand by while she confirmed.

“You sure?” she demanded lowly of him. James nodded, fidgeting with the collar of his shirt. There was the distinct prickle of cold sweat starting to form between his shoulder blades.  

“I don’t know whether that’s the guy we want, but I know I knew him.” He took a deep breath to steady his nerves, willing his heart to slow, then cast another discerning glance over the two elderly men who were just now saying their goodbyes. “The other one, too.”

“Did you get that?” Skye whispered into her earpiece, receiving instructions in return as James watched the two old men part ways at the street corner.

 

It was an observation mission, essentially. The theory was that Kalyagin was if not active at least still involved to some degree in HYDRA’s affairs, even if it was just staying up to date. In any case, the agents trailed him back to his house, spent the next two days observing the man’s schedule and bugging his place to the moon and back while he was out. They’d even put trackers and bugs in several coats, hats and walking sticks in order not to miss anything. And then, like shadows in the night, they vanished back north. Coulson was pleased about the successful mission and James was slightly busier now in sifting through endless hours of recordings that were coming in. most of it was negligible, but at least he got to practice his Spanish (which he again had no idea when he’d learnt it).

He was just going through with the translation of the mysterious Red Army files, simultaneously listening to the live-stream from Kalyagin’s sitting room with half an ear, when a door clicked, followed closely by a second voice. James knew without thinking or doubt that the voice belonged to the man with the bent back he’d thought he recognized on that street in Buenos Aires.

He quickly grabbed hold of a note and scribbled some words down on it, then slid it over the table towards Trip with an apologetic look, still listening in on Kalyagin and his guest, who have switched to a strange language mixture that is sometimes comprised of more Russian, sometimes predominantly German. The rapid shifts are wearisome, but he’ll manage. Trip studied the note a moment, then met eyes with James before rising and walking to an adjoining archive room. He returns some minutes later with an old mission log from the war. Kalyagin and the yet nameless man are still exchanging platitudes, complaining about their decreasing health and the like. James flips through the file until he happens upon a photo that looks like a mugshot in most respects – a HYDRA officer they managed to capture back then with the Commandos. _Praske_ , the name reads. The photo is old, of course, but displays the same pinched lips and weasely eyes that had struck so familiar on the old man on the street in Buenos Aires. He’d been young, but relatively high-ranking within HYDRA back then, responsible for logistics. Broke down easily under interrogation, but then again Peggy Carter could put the fear of God in bigger and meaner men. Praske had also provided them with the intel that had set them on the mission to capture Zola. He gestures at the photo, then vaguely in the direction of the speakers, and Trip nods in understanding, pulling the file towards himself a James listens. It seems they’ve finally moved past the pleasantries as he hears the clinking of cups and the creaking of old furniture and old bones.

 

“The old channels are busy again these days.” Kalyagin opens, sounding disdainful but that might just be his default tone. Praske hummed non-committally.

“Yes, yes, I know, I just like to stay on top of things. They’ve made a right old mess of it and what happened in Washington was just the tip of the iceberg. They are scrambling, now, only just gaining some ground again.”

“Americans…” Praske tutted. Trip slid the folder back over, pointing at a passage that said that the SSR had handed Praske over to the Russians in the fall of ’45. He nodded in acknowledgement.

“First they steal the asset, and then they lose him.” Kalyagin griped, making a noise of disapproval that pinged around James’ skull like a bullet in a pinball machine. The sensation left him reeling so hard he took a moment to realize they were now talking about him. “Also Novakov never stopped searching.”

“He didn’t buy the Department’s tale? Why wasn’t he taken care of?”

“The good doctor is a funny case, my friend. Smart enough to keep his bases covered, but not smart enough to come so close that he became a threat. And well liked wherever he went, easily inspiring loyalty. A very irritating trait when found in other people.”

Praske hummed thoughtfully.

“Well, it doesn’t matter anymore, does it? He’s gone, the morons lost him.”

“They lost him, yes. The programming was always fickle, starting to break down as soon as he was woken from cryostasis. Even Zola’s methods couldn’t really, not indefinitely…” Kalyagin faltered, looking for words that seemed to evade him in either language before giving in with a sigh. “You know what I mean, you _were_ there after all.” James could almost picture the other man’s nod. At some point he’d grabbed another sheet of paper, scribbling down notes and names that fell during the conversation. He’d done it in Cyrillic script automatically.

“It was easier at first, when the amnesia was still …naturally occurring, for lack of a better word. And with Ivchenko. All that machinery was making him unstable, erratic.”

“They only moved Insight up because the asset wouldn’t have made it until then with the original timeline, and then what? Probably why it was so horrifically botched, in the end.”

More thoughtful humming, but the rest of the conversation didn’t reveal any more of value. James looked down at his notes and then set to converting it into Latin letters. Kalyagin. Praske. Department (X? he doesn’t know how he knows the letter, since he doesn’t even know whether it means the Latin or the Cyrillic one, or whether it’s supposed to stand for the Roman numeral). Doctor Novakov. Ivchenko.

“Fucking damn it.” He swears softly under his breath, frustrated at all those names in his direct history that he can make neither heads nor tails of. Trip looks at him with an expression of mock scandal, gasp and all.

“What? Didn’t your grandfather ever swear in front of you? If memory serves he wasn’t quite as shy back in the day.” A swear jar would have bled the Commandos dry, if he can trust his own head at all. They _were_ in the army after all (though a few of them had drawn the line at blasphemy. Well, most of the time, anyway.)

Trip just grins.

 

 

Really, this place was a veritable pigsty. You'd think a bunch of spies would be sensible enough to make a rota concerning the chores rather than let the dirt collect and turn to mold on their dishes, but they seemed to be favoring the ‘whoever breaks down first in the face of overwhelming stains’ approach. Maybe he was just being too sensitive, he thought as he regarded the pile of used mugs in the sink with a look of disdain. Sensitive and stir-crazy.  He'd always helped his mother with the dishes when he was little, and she'd passed the responsibility off to him completely as soon as his younger siblings turned old enough to do their share. With a small sigh and a look of determination, James set to work, filling the other sink with hot water and dish soap, and pulling on a pair of rubber gloves after he'd rolled up his sleeves. It was easy enough work, mechanical yet productive, and it allowed him to let his thoughts wander, going over the assorted pieces of his shadowed past. There were only scraps and bits, nothing to fill in the large blanks of his fractured history between his fall and the events of this year’s spring. He thought if only he could get a lead, start somewhere and start to unravel it all from that point onward …preferably someone who hadn’t been complicit in turning him into the Winter Soldier, but those people weren’t exactly in abundance.

He was just scrubbing a particularly stubborn tea stain from a mug that showed an owl and said 'Harry Potter' in spiky yellow letters when he heard movement behind him. Someone had entered the kitchen, but apparently frozen in spot after seeing him there. From the sound of the steps he guessed male, but not of heavy build. The noise level suggested that the person was not a trained field agent. All these deductions already made, he turned around to verify them, and was met with the young Scotsman Leo Fitz standing awkwardly in the doorframe. James managed a small smile that he hoped came across as reassuring and threw a simple _'Hello'_ over his shoulder.

"You don't have to do that, Sergeant Barnes." Fitz commented warily, his fingernails clinking quietly against his own mug clutched in his hands. James shrugged, grinning to himself as the statement reminded him of you.

"Seems like no one else will, and since I'm not really allowed to do much else here I might as well." he placed the now clean owl mug on the drying rack and placed the next few dishes in the water to soak. Fitz was still standing in the doorway when James faced him again. He nodded at the younger man and his mug, motioning for him to place it with the rest of the dirty dishes waiting to be cleaned, then at the drying rack that was already filled to more than full capacity.

"Grab a towel and help me with these, will you?"

Fitz moved as if in trance, letting his mug slip in the water, which wasn't as scalding hot anymore by now, and beginning to dry those dishes on the rack. They worked in silence for a while, but James noticed the younger man sneaking surreptitious glances at the exposed metal of his arm between the hems of glove and sleeve.

"You're the engineer here, right?" he remarked after some time, having just placed the final pieces of crockery into the water. It was just as well. Normally he didn't like people staring at the arm, but Fitz's expression was one of complete enthrallment rather than the looks of fear or pity most commonly evoked. Besides, it had been giving him some trouble lately, the circuitry allowing him some semblance of feeling having apparently clocked out partially, so that he felt a continuous dull ache in his elbow while most of his lower arm was almost completely numb to any sensory information. It was rather grating on his nerves, that. He supposed that some of the Potomac's salty water had gotten inside the casing after all and eventually worn through some wiring or other. The arm was supposed to be waterproof, but the casing had been damaged slightly on the Helicarrier and subsequently must have allowed some droplets to seep in. That paired with the fact that he'd not had regular maintenance for it in some time now had led to this unfortunate situation. If that was the case the repairs would have to be considerable and pretty invasive, too, seeing as the outer plating would have to be removed to get to the inner mechanics of the arm. It wouldn't be pleasant, exactly, seeing as the arm wasn't detachable either, grafted to his bones and fused to his nerve endings as it was. He told Fitz as much, and the other man nodded along thoughtfully, not attempting to hide his stares anymore.

James hissed slightly as placing the very last mug on the drying rack sent a sharper than usual pulse of discomfort up his arm and into his shoulder, mechanics translating the sensation into flesh with added smarting.

"We could, I mean, I could, if you're okay with that I could take a look at it right now." Fitz mumbled, letting the dishtowel drop without second thought. "It's probably to do with the ...the ...the ..." he started stuttering, and trembling, the frustration evident on his face when the term he needed eluded him. James had observed the young engineer struggle in this way before, and he could empathize with the feeling of knowing you were supposed to know something but being unable to grasp it - he often felt the same with his memories. He gently placed a hand (the warm, flesh-and-blood one) on Fitz's shoulder.

"Either which way, we won't know until we take a look." he said kindly, squeezing a bit, "Lead the way, doc."

 

When they arrive at the lab, Jemma is nowhere in sight and a small sigh of relief passes between Fitz’ lips, though he is quick to stifle it. James wisely chose to observe – quietly – over commenting on the fact that he has noticed, either this small gesture or the fact that there is a rift growing between the two young scientists that obviously didn’t use to be there. They almost died together when SHIELD fell; that is all he has been able to glean so far. Fitz was hurt in the process, had only been out of full time medical care for a few weeks when James arrived on the base. There is brain damage that affects him obviously and invasively, but no external scars. He will get to the bottom of this eventually, but for the moment he has more pressing matters to attend to, like taking steps to keep his arm operational and not suffer a breakdown in the process.

Fitz’ very obvious apprehension helped when it should have probably made him worry. He was about to let the man (boy, really, but then again his perspective was skewed) at and into his arm without knowing what might await the two of them there, but the trembling hands and nervous lip-licking of the other man only served to set him apart from the myriad HYDRA technicians and their cool detachment, their perverse fascination, their dispassionate working away on some lifeless tool.

“You, um …you’ll have to take that off, even if it’s your girlfriend’s and looks really comfy.” Fitz said, reddening and studiously pretending to arrange his tools. Right, he was standing in the middle of the lab like a total tool, wearing your MIT sweater (which, for the record, is _really_ comfy).

“She’s not my girlfriend.” He huffs somewhat indignantly as he wriggles out of the sweater with reluctance. At least he can keep on the t-shirt. The technicians always made him strip down. He breathes deeply and sits down across from Fitz, gingerly placing the arm on the workbench between them. The fingers twitch involuntarily and he grimaces.

“Yes, right, okay ummm… if it hurts, you tell me. Or…or if you need me to stop.” The young engineer’s eyes are already scanning the limb, mentally creating a layout as well as a plan of attack. James hums non-committally.

“I mean it!”

“Yeah, okay. I’ll try.”

 

Not two weeks later he’s on another mission. Not exactly because he’s supposed to be. It’s more of an accident. He had just, accidentally, entirely by chance, been on the plane when it took off (basically without warning, but Mack had needed another pair of hands to hold some clunky and frankly heavy pieces while he mended them, had just quickly gone for a tool, and the next thing he knew the engines revved to life and he got away from the exposed wires ASAP because he’d had enough electro shocks to last him several lifetimes.)

“First off, I swear I did not plan this.” He’ll start later (later meaning when it’s actually too late to turn around, for which he will blame the large and confusing layout of the plane, but he really did not plan to be there) and May will give him an unimpressed look and Trip and Skye and Jemma will look secretly delighted in the background.

“You might as well make yourself useful then.” May will state and that is how James went on his second mission. Without field clearance, still. Being pushed to the very edges of legitimacy will do things to the observance of bureaucracy. And because he likes being useful notwithstanding the fact that this is how HYDRA baited him. _Your work has been a gift to mankind…_ it’s different when gets to make that call himself.

And that was how he landed himself in a nondescript van outside the target location, doing mission control. Skye had hacked the building’s security feeds so he’s diligently scanning the live footage being projected onto the screens in the back of the van and all the agents’ earpieces feed back to this little command center, too.

It’s an extraction mission for data. The building does not belong directly to HYDRA, but to an affiliated cover company. One with intel on highly specialized experiments on their servers. Apparently the science is so advanced that they needed Jemma to come along personally, which is why the young English doctor is currently standing with Skye in a largely dark server room while Skye hacks into the systems. Security is low, but well trained. Not as well trained as Agent May, who has taken out four men at once in an impressive twirl of limbs though.

All seems quiet so far, with May watching the perimeter on the inside while James kept watch on the outside, frequently checking in with each other. Meanwhile he hears the steady murmurs of Jemma and Skye sifting through the data while Trip guards them. It’s too quiet, and he doesn’t like it.

“All clear?” May’s voice rings out quietly and James checks the screens again. Status quo: eight guards total, eight guards down, data is downloading, building is rigged with explosives. May is on the other side of the building from the three younger agents, her quadrant is clear. The middle quadrant is clear. The last quadrant is also clear. The eight guards have been knocked out and stored a safe distance from the expected blast. May continues her round, once through the building. By the time she’s back where she started the download is almost complete. It’s still too quiet. _It’s your paranoia_ , the little voice in his head says, _you’ve lost all faith in things just going well for once_. He snorts derisively. _No_ , he thinks as his eyes pick up on a sliver of movement on the edges of his vision, _just experience_.

“North wing, third floor.” He says through the earpieces. The man moves quietly and surely, using the shadows as he stalks towards the server room. He carries himself with the deadly fluidity of a trained killer. The armed guards couldn’t hold a candle to him if they teamed up. May is too far away to intervene.

“I suggest you haul ass out of there immediately. They’ve got a runner on you.”

“We can take him…”

“There’s three of us!” the youngsters protest.

“I’ll meet you at the door.” May commands, leaving no room for argument.

“You really can’t.” James seconds, eyes still glued to the man and his progress through the dim hallways. “Run. Spread out. Zig-zag. It’ll make it harder for him to shoot you.”

The runner is almost at the server room, just one floor away. May has to round the whole building; she’ll never make it in time. The download is on its agonizing last two percent because of course it is; it’s like they’re in any action movie ever.

“Get the fuck out of there!” is the last thing he yells before propelling himself out of the van, jumping the gate and rushing into the building. He can hear the first shots being fired in the distance, the thumping of feet, and moves towards it. He rounds another corner, takes stock of his surroundings, and formulates a plan on the go.

 

Nonsensically, the tune to that song from Disney’s Tangled worms its way into her consciousness as they tear down the dark hallway, zig-zagging like they’ve been told. It seems to work since Trip has only been grazed instead of shot. _Mother knows best, listen to your mommy_ – really, it’s the most nonsensical thing.

Another bullet whizzes past Skye’s head as she ducks into the next hallway, but at least the guy hasn’t thrown any grenades at them yet. He definitely had some strapped to his belt. It’s the small mercies. Then again he’s been steadily gaining on them, so close she can almost feel his heated breath on her neck, but that’s probably the adrenaline.

Then, suddenly, there’s a tremendous ‘Bang’, the ringing sound of something solid hitting something else with considerable speed. Despite her better judgement (or what other people would probably consider better judgement; she doesn’t really seem to possess it), Skye turns around, and the sight makes her stumble with surprise. She comes to a screeching halt, skidding along the wall for a few steps.

“Sarge?” she manages between gulping breaths. He’s standing a few feet behind her, bracing a door she hadn’t even seen in her mad dash. On the other side of the door, which seems to be metal, their pursuer lies sprawled if the lone leg poking out is anything to go by.

James shoots her an unimpressed look.

“Next time, when someone tells you to run, you do so instantly.” He admonishes, stooping to disarm the guy, whose face looks like he ran straight into a brick wall (because he _did_ , silly – well, kinda), in the same motion.

“Get a move on!” James urges while tying the guy’s wrists and ankles with his own belts, then hauling the limp form over his shoulder, taking off at a brisk jog. Skye is still staring, only startled back into action when she hears May’s voice call from the exit.

Within minutes, they all find themselves back in their van, the runner deposited with the guards and May wearing a scowl of epic proportions of disapproval. She doesn’t even need to say anything; her meaning could not be clearer. Skye cleared her throat awkwardly, then slid the flash drive across to her S.O., avoiding eye contact. May scowls some more, lips pursed, before telling them clippedly to buckle up and climbing into the driver’s seat, setting the car in motion. She detonated the explosives she and Trip set earlier when they’re well clear of the blast radius, then turns to James in the passenger seat.

“And as far you’re concerned…”

“Me? What did I do?” he sputters, affronted and rather more panicked than he’d like to admit. Old habits are hard to shake.

“You were supposed to stay in the van.” She states blankly. James feels his hackles rise. He hasn’t done anything wrong, he doesn’t think.

“I wasn’t even supposed to be here in the first place.” He objects hotly. At this, May’s face softens just a fraction.

“We’ll talk it over with Coulson as soon as we get back.”

In the end, he gets a commendation for his quick thinking, tempered with a reminder not to neglect communications, and is upgraded to a restricted field clearance, which places him as back-up/mission control/getaway driver if the need arises. All of this should he wish to (he does) with the possibility to opt out if he doesn’t feel up to it mentally (strongly encouraged and just as strongly refused, though he doesn’t say that last part out loud.)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe it's not Frost-  
> anyhow, tell me all your thoughts and feelings in exhaustive detail; we have a lot to catch up on ;)


	28. We Wear The Mask

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello again, lovely people^^  
> this is a bit of a filler chapter, but somehow it ran away from my original plans a bit while I was writing and then it fit better on its own instead of as part of a longer chapter, so here goes.  
> enjoy^^

“Sergeant Barnes-“ May sounded impatient.

“I’ve gone a full month without any major episodes!” James pleaded. “I can handle it!”

“And when was the last time you had a full night’s sleep?” Longer than that. Which May knew full well since part of the provisions for his restricted clearance was that he be monitored even more closely by Jemma. He withered a bit, but wasn’t willing to back down yet. He knew he was pushing it, but talking back somehow came a lot easier when it wasn’t followed by beatings or electroshocks or the like, when the worst thing to come out the other end was exasperation. May sighed.

“It’s a small mission. We don’t need you on this one. Go get something for your headaches, try to get some actual sleep. The next mission will come before we know it.”

“But-“

“Don’t make me tell the Captain about this little arrangement.” That shut him up. They’d all decided, in true conspiratory spy fashion, that no one outside the remnants of SHIELD had to know, not yet anyway. He’d been surprised himself. Before Buenos Aires he’d been afraid that anything resembling a mission would make him either snap or break down, but he’d been more focused than ever before. And so, like a predator sniffing blood, he’d come running at the mere suggestion. It felt good to take back some small measure of control, no matter how illusory. But Agent May, he had learned, was a formidable sparring partner both physically and intellectually. Plus, she was getting that impatient slant to her eyebrow again which told him that she wasn’t going to indulge his need for arguing much longer. He relented with a small sigh.

“It’s just …this is all I know; it’s the only way I can try to make amends for…” his voice falters, his throat closing a moment, and he has to swallow thickly. May’s face softens just a fraction, understanding flickering across her dark eyes.

“The thing about guilt is that no amount of it can undo the past. You’ll get your chance, just not today.” She pauses a moment, squeezing his hand in a rare display of affection. He relishes in the contact.

“And you’re wrong – you are so much more than what they made you into.” May’s voice is so sincere that he can almost believe it. Nonetheless he can’t bring himself to make eye contact, just nodding mutely before trudging off in the direction of the archives. True, his head is just about killing him right now, and he can already tell that it’s going to be an unusually rough night even by his standards, and that no more than three hours from now he’ll succumb to sleep regardless of how much he might dread it. If he is being brutally honest with himself, he is in no shape to go on even the simplest of missions, but he can still be useful here until he crashes.

* * *

 

August was sweltering and you were glad it was the weekend and you had no obligations and were therefore free to just lie in bed, wearing as little clothing as possible, and try not to melt. Because of course your building’s air conditioning had chosen that exact weekend to break down. Even Becky cat was too far into a heat coma to mope about James’ absence. She’d even let you place her on a damp towel with minimal complaining. All was going comparatively well so far. You willed yourself not to think about how empty your bed felt and just in that very moment, the doorbell rang. You jumped and gave a rather undignified shriek, rolling off the mattress less than smoothly and hobbling to the front door after banging your ankle on the bedframe.

“Steve, this is really…” you ripped open the door only to freeze, “Not Steve.”

“Not Steve.” The short, red-headed woman concurred. The same who had dragged a whole committee of crusty old senators and whatnot not too long before, and on national television too. You were a fan. And currently more than a little bit star-struck. The Black Widow, Natasha Romanoff herself, was standing in your doorway.

“May I come in?”

“What? Oh yes, of course, sorry.” You stepped aside, suddenly acutely aware of the fact that you were dressed in only skimpy shorts and a really old tank top that you’d outgrown so much it left most of your midriff revealed. Agent Romanoff was wearing a full proper outfit, casual, but definitely put together and consisting of far more layers than what you had on. Long pants, the kind of shoes that require socks, even a blazer for all things holy. Nevertheless there was not a hair out of place. Enviable. Supposedly she had no superpowers; you would beg to differ.

“Sorry, the AC broke down this morning. Drink?” you contemplated changing, but then again she’d already seen you in your undignified weekend lounging attire and it surely wasn’t getting any cooler anytime soon.

“So long as it’s chilled.”

You scoffed and dug into your fridge, pulling out some iced tea and pouring two cups which you then brought over. Natasha had already taken a seat on the couch and was currently in the process of being eyed curiously by Becky. Apparently the cat had a thing for Soviet spies. Or maybe superheroes in general.

“So, not that this isn’t exciting, but what exactly brings you here?”

Natasha (goodness, she hadn’t even introduced herself. You should probably call her Agent Romanoff or something like that, even in your head) sipped her tea gingerly before carefully setting it down on the coffee table. You couldn’t shake the feeling that she was assessing you. You squirmed a bit, tugging at the hem of your top uncomfortably.

“Am I making you nervous?”

“Yes. You didn’t answer my question.” At that, she smirked. The feeling of being assessed, being tested, persisted stubbornly.

“Steve isn’t answering my calls, which may be due to my having a new number, but I need to speak to him urgently and figured he’d probably answer you.”

Okay, that was straightforward enough. You figured she’d have been able to find out about your relationship with the good Captain easily, being a legendary super spy and all (and therefore a lot about you personally, which, yeah, not _at all_ unnerving) – Becky meowed, jarring you from your thoughts, and carefully tip-toed closer, swishing a bushy tail against the Black Widow’s legs.

“Couldn’t you, like, text him your number or something like that? Or just meet up?” she just quirked an eyebrow for an answer, which somehow made you think you were onto something here. Which in turn led you to say the following words in your usual poorly inspired fashion.

“You don’t need me.” You declared tartly. “You’re here to assess me, personally, after already doing a very thorough background check I reckon.”

Becky laid down by Natasha’s feet and started purring.

“Traitor.” You muttered under your breath. Natasha smiled, not brightly but with a sense of triumph and a glint in her eye that you didn’t know how to interpret.

“Correct on all accounts.” She said simply, relaxing her previously prim and proper posture. “I didn’t mean to offend or intrude, but I just had to see for myself the person who managed to not only hide the Winter Soldier away from the whole world, but also hide the fact that she was hiding anything at all from no other than Maria Hill.”

“I have no idea who this Maria Hill is but if you put it like that it actually sounds impressive.”

Another sphinx-ish smile. The Mona Lisa has nothing on the Black Widow. You know you’re still being tested, but for now it seems like you’re passing, at least.

“Maria Hill did an assessment of all Stark Industries employees after the events in March. Tall, dark hair, enviable bone structure, kind of intimidating? I think she used a different name then.”

That did ring a bell. You remembered blue eyes that felt like they laid you bare and an overwhelming sense of nervousness at the thought of the nameless amnesiac you’d just brought home from the hospital days earlier.

“Uh-huh…” you hummed vaguely, recalling the unpleasant hour of being grilled about the random HYDRA goons falling in through your window. The interview had put any courtroom drama cross interrogation you’d ever seen to shame.

“I wouldn’t rub it in her face, if you ever meet again.”

“Wasn’t gonna-“ you mumbled, feeling entirely out of your depth here despite the fact that the event in question happened months ago. “So, is that all? You went through the trouble of tracking me down and trudging all the way over here for a talk?”

The Black Widow quirked an eyebrow, her full lips twitching with the ghost of a smirk. You were starting to find this whole spy façade very irritating.

“Look, I’m happy to help you if I can, but forgive me if my weekend plans did not entail this kind of monkey business. So, beside this little character study you’re currently conducting, is there anything else you want or not?”

“You’re sharp and gutsy, I like that. I understand what Pepper sees in you.”

“Enough with the name dropping. Be frank with me or leave.” The weather didn’t exactly help with your temper, and you did feel a little bad for snapping like that, though it didn’t seem to put the other woman off. You wondered whether anything fazed her or whether she was just that good at playing the part. She assessed you quietly for a moment longer before a mask fell and she leaned toward you slightly, pulling out her phone.

“I meant every word I said. Steve hasn’t been answering my calls or texts all day and neither has Sam.” She paused a moment to scroll through her phone and bring up the protocols to show you. “Steve isn’t home and if Sam is, he isn’t answering his door. I’ve tried everything but breaking in. It really is important that I reach them.”

You took a look at the endless list of calls and texts, thought of how the last time you spoke to James had been almost two weeks ago, and cursed men for their communicational failings before scrambling for your own phone. Natasha (she asked you to call her that while you were waiting for the line to connect) did look genuinely concerned now. You tried Steve three times without result. Sam didn’t pick up the first two times. Upon the third try the line connected only to disconnect promptly. It sounded like someone had slammed the receiver down immediately. You exchanged a look with Natasha.

“I’m getting dressed.” You declared, getting up. “I’ve always wanted to break in somewhere.”

 

“You didn’t even ask what was so important.” Natasha said some minutes later, steering her car towards Sam’s place. You shrugged.

“Figured it was above my clearance level or something like that.” You muttered, still trying to reach either Steve or Sam, but to no avail. “Figured you’d feed me lies or excuses, and I don’t have time for that.” There was no getting through. You were growing more worried with each ring. If it turned out that it was nothing and those two were just too inept to answer their phones you’d chew them out, you resolved grimly. With a noise of frustration, you looked back up, where Natasha was staring straight ahead at the road, her mouth pulled tight. The atmosphere in the car had shifted slightly, and a shiver ran down your spine.

“Sorry, I mean… well, I didn’t mean… I’m sorry.” You deflated. First you snapped at her and now you were insinuating that she was duplicitous and untrustworthy, what a great start. Natasha released a breath, shaking her head slightly.

“No, no, the thing is that you’re right, even if the whole clearance level thing probably doesn’t apply anymore, technically.” She was silent for a moment while crossing a big intersection. “What the hell, you’re in this with the rest of us. You have every right to know. Rumlow has vanished from the hospital.”

Oh …okay. You’d be lying if you claimed you weren’t reeling a bit at this very moment. This sounded worrying, especially considering the intensity in Natasha’s eyes as she said it.

“I have no idea who this Rumlow person is.”

Natasha let out an involuntary burst of laughter. If nothing else it diffused the previous tension rather effectively. You were now rather close to Sam’s place, so Natasha pulled up at the curb around the corner and wiped at her eyes before sobering up again.

“Brock Rumlow was a SHIELD agent who worked closely with Steve and I, except he was also secretly HYDRA all along.”

It was difficult to read her, to say the least. Of course, this was to be expected of a woman who made a living out of this sort of thing, but it concerned and irritated you not being able to get a read on another person. Well, in any case you quickly developed an opinion on this Rumlow person.

“So he knew all along what was going on? He knew about Jam- Sergeant Barnes?”

“That seems likely.” Natasha shot you a sly look out of the corner of her eye, but it was gone as soon as it started. You decided not to dwell on it.

“Well, I already don’t like this Rumlow guy.” You declared archly and braced yourself for leaving the air conditioned sanctuary of the vehicle.

 

“Maybe we should try the doorbell first.” You suggested timidly a few moments later, and the Black Widow let her lock-picking tool slip back into her pocket with a faint pout.

“How civilian.” She complained, but waited patiently as you pressed the doorbell, gradually increasing the frequency up to maximum annoyance level. There was no reaction at first, and then the continuous ringing masked any sounds from within, so you jumped a few feet when the door was suddenly ripped open from within, revealing a Sam Wilson who looked like he’d spent the last few days clawing himself through hell.

“This is not a good time.” He grumbled, swaying a bit. You could only stare.

“We were worried. You didn’t answer your phone.”

Sam glared at Natasha, though it faltered quickly. He sighed, passing a hand over his face and stumbled back inside. You exchanged a glance with the red-headed spy before following him inside.

Asking whether he was okay seemed redundant at this point, so you settled for a helpless huff. Sam trudged into his living room, hastily clearing away a half-filled whisky glass and some cartons of take out. Apart from that the low table was cluttered with photos and the odd piece of junk, little knick-knacks of the sort one keeps only for their sentimental value.

“It’s Riley, isn’t it.” Natasha stated, her voice sympathetic. You had a feeling you should know who Riley was, but the name hadn’t come up so far. Sam eyed her a moment, then nodded and threw back the remaining drops of whisky with a grimace.

“Like I said, it’s a bad time. I’m useless around the 6th.” Sam set the glass down on his kitchen counter, spinning it slowly between his fingers for a moment while he contemplated filling it up again. He ultimately decided against it and looked at you two women with bloodshot eyes.

“What’s so important that it had you ladies come all the way out here?”

“Rumlow’s vanished from the hospital and Steve isn’t answering his phone either, and he’s nowhere to be found.” Natasha summarized. Sam looked at her a moment, several emotions flickering across his face.

“Son of a …”

* * *

 

James had actually fallen asleep on the files concerning ‘Nameless Soldier No. 17’, if one were to be generous. It was more of a passing out really, and he woke back up when his neck had gone so stiff that he could hear the bones popping back into place when he moved. It wasn’t pleasant, but then again, he’d been through so much worse. Nameless Soldier 17 had had some very severe injuries upon being found, and at first the only things James could make out in the file were the various exclamations wondering how the man had possibly survived, but with the help of a medical dictionary he had eventually been able to translate the full list of injuries. There was, for example, a severe head trauma, several broken bones, loss of a limb – the words were blurring in front of his eyes, the Cyrillic cursive not exactly given to make the words more legible. His eyes skimmed over the lines again, lingering on the signature without really reading it before moving on to the next report, which was dated a month later. Nameless Soldier 17 seemed to be recovering comparably well from his injuries, apart from the fact that he had neither memories nor the gift of speech, apparently. James was just about to call it a day when his gaze snagged on the signature of the doctor in charge – Losevsky. He went back to the first page with the initial admission to the field hospital, which had been signed by a Doctor Nikolai Novakov.

Novakov. _Novakov never stopped searching …well liked wherever he went, easily inspiring loyalty…_ \- it was a long shot, he knew.

 _Male, between 20 and 30, around 1,80 meters, brown hair, blue eyes. Severe trauma to the skull (open fracture) and brain (extent of trauma to be determined), shattered ribs, collar bones and shoulder blades, right arm broken in three places and shoulder joint dislocated, left arm amputated above elbow as result of trauma, hypothermic, delirious, dehydrated. Identity cannot be determined. –_ The file read. James’ stomach twisted uneasily. That was too much to be explained away by coincidence. He was reasonably sure that he was Nameless Soldier 17.

He needed to find a way to speak to this Doctor Novakov.

But more importantly he needed to share this discovery with the only person he trusted enough to talk it over with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay Natasha! I hope I got her characterisation somewhat right. She wasn't supposed to appear until much later, but she had different plans apparently *shrug emoticon* anyway, more from Reader, since she didn't personally appear in the last chapter. I'll try to make the next installlment longer again, but I'm still figuring things out with pacing and relationships and all that. Writing is hard! There are a lot of things to juggle and keep in mind.


	29. Before The Storm, The Calm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another shorter filler chapter because I gotta finish what I started last time. I don't know that I can churn out another 'proper' chapter by next week, though I'll of course try. You just gotta stay tuned and if it's not that Tuesday, it'll be the next.  
> Thank you for your continued support, and now, hopefully, enjoy^^

Steve could not remember a time when he wouldn’t sketch or doodle on any spare inch of paper he could find; sometimes not even paper – any patch of sand or dirt was good enough. Even on skin – little Rosie Barnes used to love it when he decorated her arms with flowers and small animals. His mother’s bedroom had had one wall just covered in the drawings he’d made for her, a timeline in art from the moment he’d been able to hold a pencil (Sarah had splurged on a set of colored pencils when her son started school and they were among his most prized possessions). Drawing had always been how he processed the world around him. He couldn’t imagine a life without art until after his mother died. The months after were the worst he’d ever felt, and he couldn’t even bring himself to pick up a pencil and release all his grief, his rage, his forlornness.

It took him a long time to pick up a pencil again, and it was never the same after. Then, during the war, he had so much to work through that he couldn’t physically not draw. He filled sketchbook after sketchbook with impressions, a visual diary where words failed. There was one time the other commandos presented him with a water-tight sleeve so his sketchbooks wouldn’t get wet and his drawings ruined and he might have cried a little, then.

After Bucky’s fall, he only made one more drawing, forced himself to set his pencil on the paper and trace the lines, shade the plains and work out the depth and perspective. He needed to get it out, pour his pain into a physical form. He gave that piece to Howard for safekeeping and went under with the plane. No one else was ever supposed to see that final piece, and as far as Steve knew no one outside, Peggy, Howard, and the remaining Commandos ever did.

After he woke up, he felt intangible, too light and strained, stretched thin like a shadow or a ghost lingering long after his time was passed. He tried to process his second life seventy years in the future the way he knew how, with pencil and paper, but the lines wouldn’t come out right, he couldn’t get the shapes to align properly; his proportions were off and his hand cramped no matter how easy the task he set himself was.

It’s only now, after Bucky had been found, lost, and found and what feels like lost again that Steve found it in himself to return to drawing. His first few tries bore the signs of lacking practice, but it all came back to him quickly enough, to the point where he could do detailed, life-like portraits from memory in little to no time, just like he used to. There was a sketchbook Peggy sent him for his birthday the previous year, and he’s only now beginning to fill it. But it helps. Some nights, when he wakes up with his arm outstretched and Bucky’s name still on his lips, he can pick up his sketchbook and flick through the pages. Natasha’s there, in civilian clothes with that bemused smirk on her face. She’s a hard one to pin down and sometimes he thinks he’ll never be able to capture her true self. There’s Sam, speaking to a group of veterans with warmth and understanding and hope and humor, or with his wings and determination and the sheer will to help because he believes that Steve’s cause is just and worthwhile. There are his fellow Avengers, minute sketches from memory after the Battle of New York, and he can’t do them justice because he doesn’t know them as well as he maybe should, but then again what are they but a randomly assembled troupe of freaks who once managed to save the world?

There are several of Peggy, her full life told in every line on her face. A life he once thought he might share, but dwelling on that still hurts more than he is ready to admit. There is still that voice that insists that they ought to be like Mr and Mrs Malone down the hall, left to proudly regard the results of their life, the generations of their offspring. The Malones are expecting their first great-great-grandchild this fall. For some things, there are no second chances.

Then there’s Bucky. He pulls them out when those nightmares jolt him awake, uses them to ground himself. Opposing him on that street, on the Helicarrier, blank behind the eyes and so foreign he sometimes wonders how he recognized him; it was like a stranger wearing a familiar face wrong. But then there are others: Bucky with the new short hair, still weighed down and different, but real and alive and human, dancing, sitting, giving belly rubs to a fluffy cat and not laughing yet but smiling surreptitiously, lacing hands with an extraordinary young woman who has become a friend herself. Slowly, after almost two years, Steve Rogers had found his way back to art and it felt like coming home.

So right now, he’s listening while his hands sketch away at the scene before him: two generations of Carters. He tries to sound out the similarities, their lovely dark brown eyes, so keen and full of fire, the spirit and fortitude innate in both women, and a myriad of small gestures and idiosyncrasies. He pays just as much attention to the differences. Sharon must have much from her father; he still remembers accidentally stumbling upon Peggy gazing at the picture of a young boy back during the war, the moment of confusion before she noticed him and told him that her little brother had been sent to the country along with so many other children, and that she missed him so dearly but would rather have the boy at the end of the known world than in the middle of the Blitz, no matter how hard it might be on her. _‘It’s love that enables us to make sacrifices’_ she’d said, _‘Love for all, for a few, or for even just one. Love makes us endure’_.

“It must have been Ivchenko,” Peggy was saying just now, on a sweltering hot summer day in 2015 but her charming quarters are blissfully temperate and her mind is sharp and alert today, “He was imprisoned along with Zola, and then Zola struck that deal with the government.” She shook her head, mournfully, a trace of disgust still reserved for the weasely little HYDRA scientist. “I should have known, Steve. I should have noticed something was off.”

“It’s not your fault.” He and Sharon say, off simultaneity by a fraction of a second. Peggy smiles indulgently.

“If ignorance was all that’s needed to clear one of responsibility…” she answers sagely, voice brittle and expression wry. “I could have noticed that something was going on, at least. I could have noticed HYDRA was alive and thriving, but I didn’t. None of us did, and James paid the price along with many whose names will never be known.” She nodded sadly to herself. “He was my friend, too, Steve. We may not have been especially close, but he was also my friend.”

Steve doesn’t know how to respond, so he just nods, overcome by gladness that Peggy is still here after all these years, able and willing to lend him counsel and support where he needs it.

“None of us can change the past, you always tell me that.” Sharon interjected, grasping her aunt’s thin hand. “We can only try to shape the future.”

“All we can do is our best, and sometimes the best we can do is to start over.” Steve quotes Peggy’s words from back in spring, uttered just before he’d see how relevant they’d become. Peggy laughs quietly, and he finds himself glad that he could dissipate the darkness from her mind even just a bit.

“Yes, the future is open, full of chances and hope. We have no reason to be so glum when handed such an opportunity.” Peggy decrees, and then they notice the nurse hovering by the door, signaling that their visit must come to an end for today. Reluctantly, Steve rises, bowing to hug Peggy good-bye.

“I want to see him. When he’s ready and you’re all safe, then I want to see him.” Peggy insists in parting, and Steve promises, trying not to think that her time is gradually running out. It’s Peggy Carter, for the love of all things holy, she’ll put off the Grim Reaper by sheer force of will.

Back in the car, he and Sharon share a silent look before she revs the engine and he moves to stuff his sketchbook in his bag, in which something is blinking furiously. It’s his phone, he realizes upon fishing the thing out from the depths of the bag and it suddenly occurs to him that he hasn’t spared a look at the damn thing since the day before, after he’d set it to silent for his morning run. When he unlocks it, there is an angry rush of approximately 500 messages and notifications, and also the battery is at two percent.

“Dammit.” He grumbles, feeling like a colossal tool. If Natasha tried to reach him it had to be important.

“I’ll just drop you off at your place. We can go over the rest of the leads another day.” Sharon says calmly, and he thanks her while trying to send a text to Natasha before his phone dies.

* * *

You left Sam in a state of that wasn’t necessarily much better than the dark pit of grief he’d burrowed in, but certainly more productive. There was nothing more you could do, frankly, other than being there. Some things we have to pull ourselves out of and all others can do is help you dust off once you’ve managed that.

Natasha checked her phone again before buckling in, frowning a moment.

“Steve’s okay, I think. Forgot his phone or something like that. I’ll stop by his place after I drop you off.”

“I could come with you, if you need help chewing him out a bit. This kind of negligence is unacceptable.” She grinned a bit at that.

“Thanks, but I’ll manage. It’s getting late, anyway.” That much was true. The two of you had spent some hours at Sam’s, discussing the newest revelations about this Rumlow guy. You could maybe do without going over that again; it would only make you angry.

“Well, if you change your mind – I’ve been told I have quite a powerful disappointed stare.”

“I’ll keep it in mind.” Natasha grinned and zipped into traffic. You distracted yourself halfheartedly during the drive, glad that Natasha seemed to be of the opinion that not all silence needs to be filled with words.

“Thanks for the ride.” You said, when she pulled up in front of your apartment building some time later.

“No, thank you for your help.”

“It was nothing.” You waved it off, collecting your stuff, making sure you didn’t leave any odds and ends behind. You closed your purse, then thought better of it and opened it again to fish out your keys. “Well, if you need me, you know where I live.”

Before she could reply, you phone started chiming. You scrambled for it, struggling to get a hold of the thing but eventually succeeding.

“Hey, _______, is this a good time?”

You couldn’t help the smile spreading over your face at hearing James’ voice again. Natasha in turn smirked in that sly, knowing way she had, like she already had you all figured out. You made a face at her and climbed out of her car, waving your good-bye.

“Hey, champ, I’m so glad you didn’t forget the point of telephones.”

He scoffed, and the sound sent a flutter through your chest as you opened the door to your building and checked the mail. Of course, this didn’t get past him and his enhanced hearing.

“I can call later if you’re busy now.” You could almost hear the frown.

“Don’t be silly,” you answered, climbing the stairs, “I’m just going back up to the apartment just now, won’t be a minute.”

“Oh – where’ve ya been?”

“Nu-uh, you go first.” You unlocked the door to your apartment, where the AC was blessedly working again, and threw yourself down on the couch, putting your phone on speaker before placing it down by your head.

* * *

 

James had made it a rule of his never to look up any facts about his life as Bucky Barnes. He felt that it would do more damage than good to cheat like that, and he had a certain stubbornness that meant he wanted the memories to come back to him by themselves before confirming them. He’d remembered Rosie’s name and her playing the violin, and more vaguely his baby brother. He remembered holding him as a baby, _‘Mommy, I want to help!’_ and getting to feed him with a bottle to be rewarded with a satisfied burp and a big gummy smile. James had been ten or eleven at the time. He remembered that someone named Becky had been important to him, though he couldn’t recall why or how. He’d been able to recall Sarah Rogers and his father’s death, which had been far from enjoyable, but it was real and it was his. He still didn’t know his mother’s face or name, though the sound of her voice had come back to him as a distant echo.

There were new memories though, mostly of you. Sometimes he thought that if that life was the only one he’d know he’d be content. At the moment, he was content just hearing your voice again, a deep sense of calm settling over him where he sat on the floor, back leaning on the bed in his quarters.

“I think I found something, about what happened right after I fell.” Just one of many blank spots. How did he get from a frozen ravine to a HYDRA that was for all intents and purposes destroyed?

“Oh well, that’s good, isn’t it? It’s better to know, I think. The mind has a way of coming up with the worst possible solutions.”

“I think so. I don’t know what to do about it.”

“Do you want to know?”

“Yes.”

“Then do what you can to find out, and if I can help…”

“Yes, of course. Thank you.” _Thank you. Why are you so good to me? I…_

“Okay, so what did you find?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> artist steve is very important to me, what more can I say. what can YOU say?  
> and peggy *heart eyes*


	30. But Until Peace, The Storm (Pt.1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone did you miss this story??? I know I missed getting your lovely feedback! Sorry it took so long. I really meant to get something to you much, much sooner, but alas ...writing is so hard, why didn't I pick an easier hobby?  
> Aaaanyway, split chapter again, because this was turning into a giant monstrosity that would literally take me forever to finish if I left it all in one piece. So, yeah, enjoy pls

_But if it had to perish twice_   
_I think I know enough of hate_   
_To say that for destruction ice_   
_Is also great_   
_And would suffice._   
_Fire and Ice, Robert Frost_

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

As May had promised, the next mission came around, and then another and another. They jetted all across the globe, and James felt the effects on his internal clock even through his basically non-existent sleeping pattern.

The good things were that he had never been so focused in living memory. Worming in and chipping away at HYDRA’s seemingly omnipresent grasp, he felt like he might actually really be making a difference. It helped to abate the ugly voices in his head, telling him that he had spilled too much blood to wash away. He still had to try. He had to hold on to hope and count the things he found worth living for.

The bad things were that the most important of those things worth living for were currently far too far from his reach. He wanted to reconnect with Steve, figure out the connection they undoubtedly shared and see if they could still hang onto it after everything that had happened to each of them in between. With Steve, he missed what might be. Missing you was more than the luxury of quiet mornings and curling up on the couch to watch Star Trek, more than cooking together and talking or just being assured by your presence. It was a constant hollow ache in his chest, the absence of your hand in his…

“Sarge, you’re pining again.”

“…No.” he made a face despite the fact that no other team member could currently see him (probably), being set up around the perimeter while he and Trip sat on the roof across from a hotel in Hong Kong, rifle trained on the window of a known weapons dealer who’d recently expanded his customer list to include HYDRA. Trip was looking through the rifle’s scope, but James could see the smirk curling at the corner of his lips and let out a displeased huff at the ribbing from Skye over the comms. He much preferred the little game of _‘pop culture reference, inside joke, or meme’_ the younger agents liked to throw at him, and he hated that game.

“That was a statement, not a question. Take a break, target’s on the move.” As always, May’s stern tone was that was needed to make them fall back in line. James swallowed his annoyance and focused. The mission was simple enough: while the target was out cozying up to HYDRA’s representatives, Skye would get into his room and work her tech-magic on all his electronics – bugs, tracers, Trojans, the entire works. Trip’s rifle remained conscientiously trained on the hotel suite entrance, just in case. James concentrated on the perimeter, keeping his eyes on the small screen in front of him and the feeds from the security cameras it displayed. The arms dealer was just shaking hands with HYDRA’s rep downstairs at the bar while Skye was uploading a tracer to his laptop.

“Time?” May demanded over the comms in her usual succinct style.

“Five minutes.” Skye answered at almost the same time James said “We’re good.”

“No, I’m good.” Skye grinned, pushing the laptop closed again. She patted down her costume – one of the hotel’s maid uniforms – and proceeded to bug the guy’s stuff, minus the cell phone he unfortunately had on him at all times. Four and a half minutes and she was done and out the door.

“You’re great.” James said flatly, the very definition of dead-pan. Skye giggled as she made her way out of the hotel, deftly discarding the maid outfit in favor of a more inconspicuous civilian look.

“Yeah, yeah, see ya at the rendezvous and you can go back to pining for ________.” She teased. Trip failed to smother a snort of amusement as he packed up his rifle and James shot the other man a look carefully devoid of amusement.

“You know who I really miss most?” he grumbled into his comms while he and Trip made their way down a bare and very long staircase.

“Don’t say it’s the cat.”

“Our cat.” James confirmed matter-of-factly, then stopping a moment to mentally curse himself when he realized his little slip-up. _‘Our cat’_ , like a slightly eccentric suburban couple yet too young to settle down fully, the kind who have just bought a house but prefer to spend their vacations hiking up the Andes or swimming with whales off the coast of Antarctica, but will start having their 2.5 kids within the next five years. Thankfully no one reacted to it, so he was left to ponder the unexpected direction of his thought process for the rest of the way.

The rendezvous point was an older barber shop in the less modern and sky-scraper-y part of the city. The four of them had split up, taking various turns and roundabouts to shake any tails. James was the third to arrive. He walked through to the back where Trip was lounging in one of the large chairs while Skye tapped away at her phone. James took off the last of three hats that had served as a disguise and ran a hand through his hair, which had grown out a bit since you’d cut it.

“So, what exactly is this place again?”

“Old SHIELD field office, but it was shut down in the eighties which is why it wasn’t compromised during the file leak.”

“Lucky us.” James commented, eyeing the other chair warily. On the one hand he was tired, on the other seats with reclining backs were a big no-no. Instead he opted for leaning against the wall next to Skye, arms crossed to keep from fidgeting. Trip was playing around with the chair’s levers while James let his gaze do a more than cursory sweep of the location. The little barber shop was still in use, with an elderly man currently sweeping out in the front, but was otherwise completely unremarkable. Then again, James presumed that had rather been the point.

“Imagine this place, back in the old days…” he began to muse. Skye snorted, which he opted to ignore for the time being. “You’d come in, give someone the password, meet a perfect stranger to exchange intel …”

“There may be hidden doors even.” Trip quipped, smile wide with mirth while he adjusted the back rest, or tried to. Skye muttered something regarding him, a veritable fossil, declaring anything ‘old’ that didn’t at least precede railways. James gave a slightly annoyed snort, but decided not to pay the comment any further attention.

“It seems like somebody read too many Bond novels.” He quipped just as May appeared with a rustle of the curtain half closing off the part of the room they were in.

“Those were only published beginning in the Fifties.” The senior agent raised a skeptical eyebrow at him.

“What? I read. I read things, okay?”

“Spy novels?” Skye questioned, actually looking up from her phone now. “That’s a bit of an overkill, don’t you think?”

He was just about to reply something borderline rude that she wouldn’t take ill because they got along like that, but he didn’t get to the actual vocalizing part because in that moment there was a metallic screech and a dull thud behind them, and when they whirled around on reflex the ground was open where Trip had just been sitting in the chair. A groan sounded from the hole and James could see the dust of decades lazily swirling through the air. He was suddenly extremely glad that he had decided against sitting.

“Are you okay?” Skye yelped, already kneeling at the edge of the hole.

“Just my dignity I think.”

James stepped closer cautiously, wary of the drop but it wasn’t even that deep. Trip looked up at them from beneath, sprawled halfway off the chair, the back of which seemed to have broken off upon impact. Dust was already settling over him in a thin layer.

“So that’s kind of a secret door, right?” Trip joked, somewhat weakly, picking himself up from the floor with a wince. He might have gotten a bit banged up, but seemed largely fine. No major injuries. James breathed deeply to calm his suddenly galloping heart and blinked away the flashing images of a man in blue, red and white falling amidst debris. He lay down carefully, reaching one arm down to help pull Trip back up. May watched the scene with equal measures of fondness and exasperation, either carefully veiled to the uninformed onlooker.

“If you’re done, agents, we have a plane to catch.”

“I can’t wait to get home…” Trip muttered miserably, cautiously testing out whether the fall had impaired his range of movement by rolling his shoulders.

“We’re not going back yet. You –“ she nodded at a wincing Trip, “And I are going to Istanbul and you two are expected in Berlin.”

Skye exchanged one quick look with James before her head snapped back to their SO.

“You’re putting us in charge of a mission?”

“No.” May retorted, and if James wasn’t seeing things there was the ghost of an indulgent smile curling at the corner of her mouth.

 

They were together until Turkey, utilizing the flight time to go through the next mission briefs and rest before the train would take them north through Greece and the Balkans, then Hungary, Slovakia and the Czech Republic into the capital of Germany. James wasn’t thrilled about being on a train for more than a full day, and neither was Skye, though for different reasons. A plane would have been fine. He hadn’t fallen to his death from any planes, to the best of his knowledge, but the metal arm and the fact that he was technically a dead man as well as a wanted one meant the fewer controls the better.

James jumped out of the train after Skye, onto the platform of Berlin’s main station, and stifled a yawn. He should have utilized the ample time spent on transport to sleep but as always had found himself unable to do so. Apart from his own issues with sleep the exposed nature of journeying this way, among strangers and in public, is far from conducive to relaxation and it’s not that he has no trust in Skye and her abilities, but trust is a problematic thing at the best of times and he can’t genuinely rest and be on the lookout for danger at the same time.

“Anyone picking us up?”

Skye fidgeted a small strip of paper out of her pocket. “We’re meeting our contact at this address. I don’t suppose you’ve ever been here, Sarge?”

Even if he had, he wouldn’t know it now, but at least his command of the language made it easier for them to find their way through the maze of public transportation.

They found the small café eventually, plopping down exhaustedly at a table in a far corner. A bored looking waitress came up to them within mere seconds it seemed.

“Was darf’s sein?” she asked disinterestedly, tucking a strand of chin-length chestnut hair back behind her ear and pushing up her glasses in one practiced motion.

“Do you guys have frappucinos? I’ve been dying for one since take-off!” Skye recited the code phrase dutifully, and the waitress visibly stopped a moment, assessing the both of them quickly before recovering her composure.

“There’s a Starbucks on Alexanderplatz but if you think you can handle some real coffee you’re welcome to stay here.” The waitress quipped, now in English with a strong accent. So far so good.

“Zwei Cappuccinos bitte. Können Sie etwas empfehlen?” James recited his lines dutifully. The waitress nodded slightly.

“Russischen Zupfkuchen. Hausgemacht.”

And with that the contact was made. The waitress left, returning some moments later with two cups and two plates with pieces of cake on them. There was a slip of paper tucked into Skye’s napkin, detailing the actual rendezvous point and when and how to arrive there. At least they had a bit of breathing room before they had to get going again. And cake and coffee. It wasn’t all that bad, James thought as he polished off the cake, which was delicious.

“So, are you okay, Sarge?” Skye began, cautiously sipping her coffee. James threw her a suspicious look. Where was this coming from now?

“Where’s this coming from now?”

Skye shrugged uneasily. “It’s just …we’ve been really busy lately and what I said in Hong Kong was …maybe …”

He didn’t give her anything, just staring at her blankly over the rim of his mug.

“Look, I know you couldn’t call _______ in a while now and I know it can be hard being apart when you’re…”

“When you’re what-“

“…Close.” Skye mumbled. James stared. Skye blushed and coughed a little. James tried to communicate wordlessly what a lousy save that was through subtle eyebrow action.

“Is there a point to this?” he asked somewhat irritably. He’d rather not be reminded of where and with whom he’d rather be at any given time seeing as he’d need to focus on the mission ahead in order to eventually get back there.

“Look, I promised to look out for you and I just want to know how you’re holding up is all.”

He held her gaze for another unsettling minute, desperately trying to not let his face betray his inner turmoil before softening slightly.

“I’m okay. Thanks for caring.”

“Well, if you’re really sure…”

“I am. Thank you.” He flashed a brief smile. Somehow it still felt exceedingly strange to be cared about. Not bad, not bad at all, just …strange. These people barely knew him, or knew too much of all the monstrous things that he’d done, and still cared. He swallowed his cake thickly, wondering at the cosmic movements that placed him where he was now and where he’d been before.

“I mean, we’ve got time. You could write her a post card.” Skye suggested.

“That might raise some questions.” He muttered absently into his cup. A clatter of cutlery on crockery made him wince and look up. Somehow the noise managed to sound affronted, though that might have been his imagination.

“Oh my god,” Skye whisper-shouted, eyes wide, “You haven’t told her???”

“I …well I …no I might have just been a bit vague on the exact specifics and requirements of the agreement between Agent Coulson and I.”

“________ doesn’t know that you’re coming out into the field with the rest of us and you have been ‘vague’???”

James tried to get a word in but Skye was only just gaining steam. He could do nothing but listen dejectedly for about five minutes at the very least.

“She’d only worry, and it’s not like she can do anything so what’s the point?”

“You’re lying to her! You’re actively lying to my best friend!”

“Technically it’s more of an omission. Besides, you haven’t told her anything either.”

That shut her up. For about five seconds at least.

“It’s just …it doesn’t …it’s not right, it doesn’t feel right.”

James sighed. Rolled his shoulders and took care to keep his voice level lest they be overheard.

“Look, it was agreed that no one on the outside needed to know, and that includes ________. It also includes Steve. Sometimes things are necessary even though we don’t like them.”

Skye deflated a bit, glaring accusingly at her empty coffee cup.

“Let’s get these HYDRA bastards.” She muttered darkly. It was time they got going, as a look at his watch told him.

“The sooner the better.” He agreed.

 

A good hour later of navigating Berlin’s public transport, complete with a very large and very confusing construction site smack dab in the middle of their route (it wasn’t actually, but they’d gotten lost at some point in between and had to take a detour which then led them across the accursed construction site), they are finally trudging towards the address the waitress passed on to them with less than half an hour to spare before their designated meeting time. By now the sky is starting to darken and the bars and cafés that seem to line every single street in this neighborhood are already well crowded. Mostly with young people. Actually almost exclusively with young people. They didn’t stand out much, which was good.

“This should be it.” Skye declared, though she sounded unconvinced. According to both her phone and the street signs they had reached the address from the note, Simon-Dach-Straße 36. As with most of the street, the ground level was home to a bar.

“ _Himmelreich_ – what does that mean, Sarge?” Her pronunciation was atrocious, but he decided against telling her that. There was no point to it.

“Um, heaven …heavendom? No, kingdom of heaven, something like that.”

“That’s either very promising or very ominous.”

James only grunted in reply, shifting his bag on his aching shoulders and surveying the building in search of the entrance. It was one of those turn-of-the-century tenements typical for this city, which meant that there would be rows upon rows of apartments behind the façade. He chose not to question how he knew that, just jumped at the chance that presented itself when a doorway next to the bar was pushed open from the inside, a small group of young women piling out and laughing among themselves. Skye followed him through the front part of the building into a rectangular courtyard. It wasn’t exactly spectacular: some greenery, bike racks and a fenced-in area where large dumpsters were arranged according to the color of their lids. The rest of the building rose up around them, more doors leading into its sections.

They consulted the note once more, deciding on trying the second door to the left after some minutes of muted arguing. Luckily it wasn’t locked. Four flights of stairs later, and with only two minutes to spare, they are standing in a small hallway between two doors. One is labelled ‘Dirschau’, the other, interestingly, ‘Novakov’. As far as Russian surnames go, it’s not exactly unusual – in Germany, however …he files it away to look up later. Meanwhile, Skye is ringing the doorbell next to the other door, their destination. There’s a quick shuffling of feet on the other side of the old wooden door and then the waitress from the café is standing there, looking significantly less bored, though her face falls a little and her hand is tense at her hip, no doubt itching towards a gun should she need it. The action is too obvious and tense to belong to a trained field agent.

“Why are you so afraid-“ the woman asked, her accent still as strong as it had been earlier.

“Oh ye of little faith.” James dutifully recited the last pass phrase – Matthew 8:26 – and the woman relaxed, stepping aside to wave them in.

“I thought it might be the pizza person, but this is also good. Did you find everything alright?”

“Pizza?” Skye echoed hopefully, her tone something dreamy, something full of yearning and the woman muttered something or other about her lack of cooking skills as she leads them down a narrow hallway and into a cozy living room already occupied by two other people. One is a tall, lanky man, around thirty, tan and with pitch black hair cropped short, a goatee and an apprehensive smile. The other is a woman of average height, slightly older, athletic build with dark, shoulder-length hair, green eyes and freckles on pale skin. She eyed them coolly, swirling a half-empty glass of wine in her hand.

“Who sent you again?” she asked, voice sharp and with a distinct Irish accent that reminds him immediately of Sarah Rogers who never lost hers even after living in the States for most of her life.

“Calm down, Aileen, everything’s in order.” The German woman, presumably their host by the sure way she moved through the apartment, called over while rummaging through a cupboard for a couple of cups. The Irish woman, Aileen, sent her a disapproving glare.

“You never know, nowadays. HYDRA is everywhere. I’d just like to make sure that-“

“We are here on command of Agent Melinda May. You’re welcome to test us.” Skye threw in, tapping out a challenge with her fingers over her crossed arms. The man sighs in the background and it occurs to James that they don’t even know who these people are, whether they’re really loyal to SHIELD. It might be a trap, HYDRA might have gotten wind of his whereabouts and staged this whole thing, so logically, his mind is running several miles a minute, already mapping out various routes of escape for himself and Skye, calculating how to best take down the three people strategically scattered across the room, and his heart starts beating faster while cold sweat prickles at the back of his neck.

“That won’t be necessary because I already confirmed everything with May and all.is.in.order.” The German woman repeated crossly, handing each of them a glass cup with water from a bottle she opened before their eyes, which is considerate, James finds as he chugs it. It’s summer and hot in Berlin, and he’s been merrily sweating through his long sleeves for more than a day and frankly, he feels absolutely disgusting.

Aileen glowered for a moment, before relenting with a sigh and a bitten-off Gaelic curse.

“You’ve got to understand,” the man starts, moving up to them smoothly and extending his hand in greeting, “We lost our entire team to HYDRA. Barely got out alive ourselves.”

“That’s because around three quarters of our team were HYDRA.” Aileen interjected sourly.

“I’m sure we all have debts to settle with those squid bastards.” The man answered placatingly, “That’s why we’re here, innit? Agent Owen Prescott, pleasure.”

“Aileen O’Malley, formerly Agent 9 of SHIELD’s Special Service.” The Irish woman said curtly, chugging the rest of her Bordeaux in one go before pointing to the young German. “And this is Doctor Jana Loewe, our gracious hostess.”

“Agents Barnes and Skye.” Skye introduced them. James’ eyes narrowed on the German woman. The name didn’t match up with the sign on the door, and it made him suspicious. It might be nothing, it might be something, and he didn’t quite know how to bring it up in a way that didn’t sound accusatory. And then, before he could get any further in the matter, the doorbell rang again and their host dashed off like an Olympic sprinter going for gold.

 

It was probably unprofessional to get distracted by the now arriving pizzas (genuine Italian, thin and crisp and delicious) but then again, he was positively famished and what use could he be this way. Also it gave him time to formulate a plan.

“So, not to be rude but I noticed how the name on the doorbell doesn’t match up.” Skye said around a mouthful of calzone. Well, or, apparently, the issue would sort itself out. Perhaps he shouldn’t have underestimated his partner. Huh, partner. For all the foggy memories of the Howling Commandos, working as a team, he was still mentally geared to respond to a handler.

He quickly shot a cautious glance at their host but she didn’t seem particularly perturbed or offended, though maybe a tad annoyed.

“You noticed that, didn’t you? Of course you did, you field agent people are trained for this stuff. I’m not, I’m just a simple consultant called in if need be …or I was anyway.” So James had been right in deducing that the woman was not a trained agent. She exchanged a quick look with Agent O’Malley, who silently prompted her to go on. “With the data dump during the fall of SHIELD, all kinds of information were released and suddenly I’m officially on payroll for goddamn fucking HYDRA. You can imagine how that looked.” She snorted unhappily and put her pizza down to wipe angrily at her nose. Skye wore an expression that was sympathetic yet carefully guarded and James tried to replicate it, giving their hostess the opportunity to complete her story. Which she did, after exchanging another look with the other two agents.

“Well, long story short: These two helped me set up a fake identity and I got the hell out of there and now I’m back in my home town, waiting tables. I have a doctorate for fucks sake! I only ever wanted to dig up old crockery, I don’t know what happened.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, that part one of two to three, we'll see  
> A small handful of original minor characters, yay! Feel free to tell me what you think of them so far ;)  
> A few notes: the scene in the barber shop is adapted from the comics. Originally it had Bucky falling down with the chair, and I planned to keep it that way at first, but it became apparent that wouldn't jive well and while I have some more painful things planned I think I'm not actually cruel just for the sake of it, so Trip had to take the fall on this one. He's fine btw.   
> The places described for Berlin are real places. The awful construction site has been there for over six years now, at least. I barely remember a time when it wasn't there. Then again there are always construction sites all over Berlin. They're everywhere, every so often they slightly shift locations, and there is no escape, only resigned acceptance.  
> The bar named 'Himmelreich' (which does mean 'Kingdom of Heaven') is also a real place. You can look it up on Google maps.   
> Translations for the two little bits in German:   
> Was darf's sein? - What can I get you?/What would you like?  
> Zwei Cappuccinos bitte. Können Sie etwas empfehlen? - Two Cappuccinos please. Can you recommend anything?  
> Russischen Zupfkuchen. Hausgemacht. - Russian cheesecake. Home-made.  
> couldn't find a better translation for the cake, but it's basically a kind of cheesecake with chocolate crust and chocolate dough bits on top.


	31. But Until Peace, The Storm (Pt. 2) – Bridge of Spies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'will you just get to the f***ing point already' - me @myself  
> in other words  
> hello my lovelies and a warm welcome to readers old and new  
> and now, on with it:

_I stood with the Dead, so forsaken and still:_  
_When dawn was grey I stood with the Dead._  
_And my slow heart said, ‘You must kill, you must kill:_  
_‘Soldier, soldier, morning is red’._

_Siegfried Sassoon – I stood with the dead_

 

* * *

 

After that somewhat tense dinner, Skye and James got the welcome chance to wash up and rest before the next day. And despite the fact that he was completely beat his frazzled mind would once again not let him sleep. And if he slipped under anyway it would neither be rest- nor peaceful, he could tell by the darkness already lurking around the edges of his consciousness. Add in the nerves from the upcoming mission and it was clear he didn’t stand a chance at a much-needed respite. He rolled onto his back with an annoyed grunt, stubbornly telling himself that he just needed to find a comfortable position.

“Sarge, you awake?” Skye asked from the couch above him. Since they had to make do with limited resources Jana’s little apartment was their accommodation for the duration of the mission and since there were five of them in a three-room-apartment they had to make do with air mattresses and sharing rooms. Except Prescott who got a room to himself because he snored atrociously. James could hear the man even now, through the solid brick walls. Dugan would have been jealous.

This arrangement placed Skye and James in the living room, where he chivalrously took the floor because Mrs and Major Barnes didn’t raise a complete lout. Besides, the couch was tiny – he wouldn’t have fit on it anyway. But he had been asked a question, to which he now grunted affirmatively in place of a more elaborate answer. Skye sounded equal parts exhausted and anxious, so he didn’t attribute her being awake solely to her surely messed up circadian rhythm.

“Would you rather be back at HQ now?”

He’d rather be on a couch – a rather specific one that stood in a certain apartment in Bethesda – but it was no use wishing for things he couldn’t have. Skye had rolled around and arranged herself so that she was peering down over the edge of the couch cushions, chin resting on her crossed wrists like this was a sleepover party. She must have read his thoughts from his expression because her own grew sympathetic. He could barely make it out in what little light came through the curtains.

“I mean, that mission tomorrow – it’s gonna be tougher than any you’ve been on with us so far. Do you regret signing back up for this?”

“I’ve been doing this sort of shit since before any of you were born.” He felt compelled to point out,beyond caring how petulant he may sound. Skye made a face at that, shifting and unwittingly moving more into the blended orange-silver light cast by moon and street lamps.

“Yeah gramps I know I just …You have every right to want out, not back in.”

He considered this a moment. What right _did_ he have, really? The deeds of his time as the Winter Soldier, however incomplete his recollections of those may be, were so horrific that to leave them unanswered for would weigh just as heavily as having done them in the first place. He shook his head reflexively.

“I’m most effective in the field, so that’s where I must be.”

Above him, Skye released a tiny little sigh and rolled back over, flopping down on her back. He shifted again, making the air mattress squeak quietly in protest.

“Do you trust me?” Skye asked after a few moments of silence. James weighed his answer carefully, having been caught off guard by the question. There were definitely things he didn’t know about her, as well as the rest of the team, things none of them spoke about beyond vague allusions. Like what had happened to them during the fall of SHIELD. Then again Skye was your friend, and he’d gotten to know her quite a bit in the short time since they’d met.

Apparently his silence had stretched on too long for Skye to bear, because she shuffled back into her previous position and peered down at him again.

“I mean, I know this is … you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to but I …you’re my partner, kinda …ugh, I’m so tired. Am I even making sense anymore?”

James’ lips quirked upward just the tiniest fraction. He adjusted the position of the heavy metal at his side so it didn’t press all the air out of the mattress with its weight while also not pulling on the flesh it was attached to too much before giving his carefully deliberated answer.

“I trust you to have my back out in the field, and you can count on me to do the same for you,” he swiftly reached up his other hand and gently flicked her nose, like he might have done to his siblings when they were all still young. “…Partner.”

Her broad grin was oddly gratifying. It warmed him like the lazy Brooklyn sun in late summer.

“Hell yeah,” she retorted, a great deal more cheerful and less tense. She tucked one arm under her head and curled up on her side facing him with eyes already drooping shut.

“Sarge and Skye, team extraordinaire, reporting for kicking ass and taking names!” she yawned deeply and he let out a soft laugh.

“Skye and Sarge,” he threw in softly, “Sounds way better.”

“If you say so…” she grinned sleepily, “HYDRA quivers before them!”

James laughed again, and drifted off some minutes after.

 

He woke again to the rather irritating feeling of being poked in the cheek, hesitantly yet repeatedly. He grunted something that was supposed to amount to _‘Stop it’_ , rolled over and pulled the pillow over his head for protection. A prolonged beat of peace and then he was poked again, a short fingernail gently digging into his shoulder this time. He really didn’t like that. If Rosie and Jules were going to start tickling his feet within the next few moments they’d get what was coming to them. He whined lowly and grabbed the blanket tightly when he felt it being pulled away, curling in on himself.

“Hey…” a voice called, “Get up.”

“N _o_ ,” James whined in response and pushed the pillow down more firmly to drown out the voice, or voices, surrounding him. “It’s Saturday.”

“I regret to have to inform you that it is actually Thursday. Now get up.”

“It’s too early!” he protested weakly, tightening his grip on blanket and pillow.

“It’s half past ten and you’ve had no less than four complete REM cycles.” The voice declared matter-of-factly. “Get the hell up, Barnes.”

“Don’t wanna…”

“Well, that’s too bad.” And then the blanket was whipped away, leaving him wincing when all the lovely warmth evaporated in a huff.

“Wow, he’s really not a morning person, is he?” another voice joined in, this one strongly accented. He wished they’d just stop talking and let him sleep, let him chase the lingering traces of that recurring dream he’s been having lately. He grunted in annoyance and secured the pillow over both his ears, not that it did much good. A phone rang shrilly, and the accented voice turned to answer it. By now he was too cold and too annoyed to even try staying asleep anyway, so he reluctantly shoved the pillow away and pushed himself up. His first order of business was to scowl at Skye very darkly. It left her largely unimpressed.

“Wakey wakey, partner.” She said drily before going back to working her special kind of magic on the laptop on the coffee table in front of her.

‘Have mercy.’ He retorted. Granted, it did sound every bit like ‘Fuck off’, but at his core it’s what he meant. Skye stuck out her tongue at him and continued working. James heaved himself up from the wobbly air mattress and trudged into the bathroom, then into the kitchen to retrieve a cup of coffee. Their hostess was sat there by that time, offering him some breakfast. He’d never seen such a wide selection of meats. Not even mentioning the cheeses, jams and other spreads – one could be led to assume the woman was holding a banquet.

Two cups of coffee and a generous amount of toast later – and he’d only gotten through half the meat selection – he was feeling both alive and human enough to brave the living room once more.

 

They’d gotten through most of the mission specs the previous evening. Apparently there was some sort of alien artifact that had gone missing from its SHIELD containment during the HYDRA reveal. The thing was, of course, fatally dangerous, which was why it had been locked up and sealed away (more tightly so than himself) and never experimented on (very much unlike himself). Agents O’Malley and Prescott had previously been part of a special unit tasked with assessing and, if necessary, bringing in 0-8-4s like this one, and Dr Loewe, being an accomplished archaeologist, had often been called in to consult on whether the newest find was indeed alien or not.

The artifact in question though had been under SHIELD lock-up since 1946, captured from a straggling HYDRA unit by none other than founder and first director Peggy Carter herself. O’Malley had looked reverent when she’d recounted this. James had wondered whether any of the Commandos had been with her then; it seemed right that they would.

In any case, O’Malley and Prescott had finally been able to track down the fatally dangerous alien thing (furthermore to be referred to FDAT) and naturally, because of its immediately lethal alien nature, HYDRA had wanted to get their grubby, world-domination-seeking and terror-spreading paws on the FDAT. And apparently whoever had procured the damned thing was now coming out of the woodwork to offer it to the highest bidder. In a feat of espionage and deception worthy of fiction, the agents had managed to intercept the communications relayed between supplier and prospective customer, laying the groundwork for the operation that was now beginning to unfurl.

According to the plan, one team of agents would meet with the unknown seller, pretending to be HYDRA, while the other team would then meet with the actual HYDRA representatives, pretending to want to sell them the FDAT – oh, and then abduct them. Or ‘take them in for questioning’, as it were. ‘What could possibly go wrong?’ Agent Prescott had said after finishing the outline, laughing weakly and quickly swallowing a large gulp of wine. There were, of course, lots of things that could go wrong. For one, they were so severely understaffed that they might as well just burst in guns blazing (guns they didn’t really have, either), grab the FDAT and play a round of catch with it and that might actually be less dangerous than the actual plan.

And the worst thing was that this wasn’t even the most dangerous or foolhardy thing James had ever done, not by a long shot. The benefits of growing up with Steve Rogers. And fighting in a World War. And other stuff (he wonders whether that should count).

The point is, the lot of them might well die, but if that’s what it takes to prevent HYDRA from getting a cosmic death rock it’s well worth it.

“Why can’t the aliens ever send us nice things.” He was muttering into his coffee now, glaring at the file on the table in front of him that contained what little there was on the FDAT that apparently killed upon contact.

“Like what?” Skye scoffed while typing away on the laptop before her.

“Dunno, a cookbook? Party music? A goddamn space ship flight manual for all I care, why’s it always gotta be death and destruction? That’s pretty inconsiderate. Irresponsible, really.” Death and destruction that HYDRA and people with equally as unsavory motives would then try to utilize for their own ends. It had been the same with the Tesseract back then.

“Potential Martian disco music aside, Thor’s pretty nice,” Skye muttered, half under her breath, “At the very least his biceps are.”

James only grunted in reply, annoyed at extraterrestrial life forms and very much terrestrial evil organizations in general and at no one in particular. Outside in the hallway, Jana was on the phone again, pacing in front of the open living room door. She was currently speaking with O’Malley, who was out finishing up preparations. She and Prescott both were, but apparently she’d gotten lost on Berlin’s streets. Apparently, apart from the construction sites everywhere, there were occasionally lanes that simply became turn lanes without any warning or sense.

“No, you’re almost there. Double back and then take a left, then right onto Hasenheide. The park needs to be on your right. You need to pass the Sputnik and…” James’ vision went black like a burst lightbulb before the _‘k’_ sound was fully articulated. Since he had only been sitting on the very edge of the chair, he dropped to the floor like a sack of potatoes, not that he noticed that anymore.

 

Waking up the second time that day happened not to insistent poking, but to worried faces hovering above him. This fact notwithstanding, his first response was panic, complete with sky-rocketing pulse and no air in his lungs.

“Hey, easy,” Skye said, intrepidly placing a grounding hand on his heaving chest, “You’re safe. We’re in Berlin on a mission. Are you with me, Sarge?”

He had grabbed at her wrist on pure instinct, but the grip was weak. There was no danger in it. A pillow had been placed under his head, he noted, but other than that he was still laying where his fall had deposited him on the living room carpet. He supposed it would have been too much to ask of the two much smaller women to lug his heavy frame around.

“What happened?” he finally managed to croak out, after calming down enough to return to a sustainable breathing pattern and heaving himself up into a sitting position.

“You suddenly keeled over and were out cold for around ten minutes. I was kinda hoping you could tell me what that was about.”

A very good question. One that he, unfortunately, didn’t have an answer to beyond _‘HYDRA hid landmines in my brain apparently’_ , which, okay, worrying but expected. All in all it could have been worse, seeing as he still knew who he was, and where, and why, and who the people around him were. Worst case scenario: whatever failsafe HYDRA had installed in his head knocks him out while also resetting his hard drive, erasing all the hard-won progress he’d made so far. Or it would send him into a mission headspace so complete that, once activated, he’d have slaughtered every single person present. Whatever trigger word had fallen only did the first and he was immeasurably grateful that for once the universe wasn’t completely screwing him over. And he hadn’t even hit his head on the way down, so double yay!

This feeling had no chance to persist however, as the front door clicked loudly and then Agent O’Malley was standing in the doorway, eyeing him critically.

“How are you feeling, Agent Barnes?” she said in the kind of clipped tone that spoke of utmost displeasure. When he failed to provide an answer, the senior agent frowned and strode into the room, prompting him to quickly scramble to his feet to try and preserve at least a shred of dignified competence, even if it was a losing battle.

“Does this kind of thing happen often?” O’Malley inquired sharply.

“No ma’am.” This was literally the first time. And he had no idea what had triggered it. It must have been a word, maybe a phrase. The inner workings of his fractured mind were a maze in which the jangling of keys could send him into a full-blown panic attack. O’Malley crossed her arms and squared her shoulders, her gaze challenging.

“Listen, Agent, you’re here because Melinda May vouches for you, and I trust May with my life. Moreover, I trust her with the life of my remaining agent and my consultant. Most importantly I trust her with my mission, so when I asked for back-up and she sent you, two operatives I have never even heard of, I am understandably wary, but I trust Melinda May. But now you just black out for no apparent reason. You’ll understand my concern at this.”

“Yes ma’am.” James dared reply quietly, having somehow assumed a rigid military stance that would have done his drill sergeant proud. O’Malley, apparently not as easily placated, shot him a withering look.

“We are about to mount an operation that will see us into the direct line of fire, with no back-up, no extraction plans. We are outgunned and outmanned and the whole thing is hideously dangerous even if we were equipped to full capacity, so I will ask you this _only once_ , Agent Barnes, and I expect a truthful answer: Are you ready for this mission, or are you a liability?”

James stole a sideways glance at Skye before returning his gaze to Agent O’Malley’s. He was about to go face to face with HYDRA, and while he’d taken every care there was no guarantee that he wouldn’t be recognized. Who knew what else they had buried in the recesses of his psyche, just waiting to be triggered by a simple word? And that was on top of all his other issues. Going into an actual combat situation for the first time since SHIELD fell and he’d dragged Steve out of the Potomac, there was no telling what might happen with him, how he might react. His mere presence was putting these agents in danger, and, save for Skye, they didn’t even know who they’d let into their midst. But if HYDRA got a hold of the deadly alien artifact there would be casualties. People would die, targets because of who they were or what they did, or even just caught in the crossfire. He couldn’t allow them to acquire another weapon with such destructive force if he could do anything to stop it. He straightened his posture and looked O’Malley straight in the eye, unflinching.

“I am ready.”

 

It was evening before the final and crucial stage of the plan began, the sun hanging low in the sky westward. They were headed in that direction now, with two motorbikes and a black sedan, all equipped with communication devices in their ears that allowed them to be in constant contact with each other. Jana, being a native of the city, functioned as their navigator as they drove first south until they reached the city’s Autobahn, the A 100, then west for around twenty minutes. They left the A 100 bearing south-west, leaving Berlin behind and approaching Potsdam. As it were, they’d started in the former Soviet sector, crossing into the American and the British ones respectively before eventually returning into the formerly Soviet zone when crossing the city limits. If there was any sort of metaphor to be gleaned from these facts it wasn’t exactly accessible.

“We there yet?” Skye whined as they drove through a seemingly endless stretch of woods. She was in the car with Jana and Prescott, while O’Malley was on the other motorbike, bringing up the rear behind James.

“Almost there.” Jana said calmly while O’Malley muttered something that sounded suspiciously like _‘We’ll get there when we get there.’_

Already the greenery was clearing up ahead, giving way to a wide body of water traversed by a large bridge with iron beams rising up on both sides, a single arc over the middle point. The structure seemed vaguely familiar; James felt it niggling at the back of his mind, like a faded movie reel. _Night time, fog, and somber men in long coats and hats, cars parked on both sides of the bridge, facing each other from the opposing shores. The men walking towards the middle, about to meet under the arc._ He was just passing under the arc now himself. _A shot from above, a shadow vanishing before one of the coat-clad figures had even fully crumpled to the ground._ James gasped in a shuddering breath, hands tightening on the handlebars a moment. O’Malley pulled up next to him, looking disapproving despite the fact that her face was completely obscured by the helmet she wore.

“Have you by any chance misplaced your accelerator, Agent Barnes?”

“No ma’am.” He gritted out, speeding up again to compensate for the velocity he’d lost while distracted by his flashback. O’Malley gave a terse nod as she let him take the lead again, though she still seemed displeased.

“You okay there, Sarge?” Skye asked immediately. He could see her turn in the backseat to look back at him, so he waved.

“I’m fine, kid.” Other than the realization that I likely shot a man here, probably decades ago. By the time the little episode had concluded they were already well clear of the bridge either way.

 

Minutes later they pulled up at a shabby looking garage or workshop of some sort. There did not appear to be another soul present but O’Malley had them do a perimeter check just to be certain. They then concealed the bikes and waited in tense silence, Jana waiting with the bikes and Skye taking up a position that would allow her to provide them with covering fire if needed. O’Malley tugged her blazer in place and directed a terse look at the two men, who were posing as the muscle in their little charade. In the distance, James could hear the crunching of gravel under tires as another vehicle drew nearer. O’Malley gripped the briefcase that contained the payment for the FDAT and gave them a nod.

“You’ve all been briefed. This is it.” Her eyes lingered on James a moment, silently challenging. “Don’t fuck it up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh goodness so much to say  
> \- the Sputnik thing is, again, an actual thing from the comics that I have not read yet because I lack the funds and time; the actual Sputnik referenced here is also an actual thing and is a cinema in Kreuzberg, Berlin, Germany  
> -tousled_bird can confirm everything I say abt Berlin probably, but then again, I don't say that much, do I?  
> -spot that 'The Martian' reference. Has anyone seen that movie? I loved it but I am shockingly unused to Sebastian Stan's characters getting happy endings. Still not sure how to deal.  
> \- the bridge is Glienicker Brücke. There's a picture on google maps if you wanna look it up. You may have heard of Tom Hanks' new movie by the same name as the chapter subtitle. Again, a real thing - the bridge, that is - and an interesting spot for Cold War history. You know you love Cold War history. Look it up.
> 
> that's it I think, so now you just go ahead and tell me what you think. Can be at exhaustive length. Seriously. There is no such thing as a comment being too long or too detailed. Feedback sustains me.


	32. Of Comfort No Man Speak

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for this chapter: swearing, violence, non-linear timelines, pain  
> most of it was written under direct influence of the Civil War trailer, which has devastated and broken me, which is also why you get this update outside of the regular tuesday schedule

_No matter where – of comfort no man speak._  
_Let’s talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs,_  
_Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes_  
_Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth._  
_Let’s choose executors and talk of wills._  
_And yet not so – for what can we bequeath_  
_Save our deposed bodies to the ground?_

_William Shakespeare – Richard II, Act 3 Scene 2_

* * *

Tony Stark, after fumbling around with two completely unrelated pieces of machinery at the same time and somehow managing not only not to blow himself up but also repair and improve them respectively, threw the tools he had been using carelessly on top of the cluttered mess that was his workbench. What to any other person would look like an extreme hardcore version of _‘Where’s Waldo’_ , except with various pieces of tools and machinery and potentially volatile materials was a source of familiarity to the genius inventor and he would later be able to retrieve the tools in question, or in fact any other piece, with astounding ease. Probably without even looking. Truthfully he hadn’t even been really paying attention to what he had been doing up until that point, a mixture of competence and muscle memory seeing him safely through while his mind was occupied with more pressing matters.

“Thanks, J. – now pull up the number of that DC research branch manager from Biomed.”

“I have been instructed by Miss Potts to relay the following message: _‘Tony, no. Absolutely not. Leave her alone.’_ ” The engineer looked thoughtful for about five seconds after the recording ended.

“It’s important.” He tried justifying what he was attempting to accomplish. “Please? Why do I even have to beg like this? Who built you?”

“I feel the need to point out that it is 5:12 am on the morning of Monday August 25th.” The AI remarked, “Calling at such a time might be deemed impudent.”

“Jarvis,” Tony gasped in mock hurt, clutching his chest dramatically, “It’s like you don’t even know me at all!”

“In this case Miss Potts has impressed upon me that under absolutely no circumstances are the tabloids to be mentioned to Miss _________.” The AI concluded dryly.

Tony Stark did not call you immediately. Instead, because despite evidence often seeming to point to the contrary, he sensibly had a hot shower and a small breakfast that included copious amounts of caffeine, then took a half-hour power nap before returning to his lab space. By then it was a quarter past seven. Acceptable calling time on a work day, he thought and waited semi-patiently for the line to connect.

***

You started awake when an orange paw began swatting at your cheek.

“Hrrrmpf.” You said, articulately. You’d fallen asleep on the couch again and your neck wasn’t happy about it. You rolled your stiff shoulders, wondering when you’d fallen asleep. It had happened a few times over the past few weeks, which was ridiculous since it wasn’t like you had to wait up next to a landline in case (a certain) someone called. You swatted the cat away and stood, stretching and yawning before stooping down to check the time on your phone. A quarter to six in the morning. On a Monday, no less.

“I am appalled.” You grumbled at the cat, who was now lounging around on your discarded blanket, innocent as anything. She seemed to have gotten over her broken little kitten heart quite well. She wanted to be fed, but you let her wait in favor of a hot shower out of revenge for waking you at such an ungodly hour. After getting dressed, you fixed yourself and your feline companion some breakfast, mentally going through your meetings for the day ahead.

You almost choked on your coffee when the phone rang.

* * *

 

He fucked up. Everything had been going well up until –

 _He fucked up._ Blood dripping down his fingers, running into the cracks between the metal plating. He’d had a glove at some point; he must have lost it. _You fucked up._ Blood, black in the night but actually pink from dilution. He shivered in his wet clothes. Gulping hard, the stooped to lift the body up on his shoulders in a fireman’s carry. _I fucked up._

Things had been going too well. He should have been suspicious. No, he had been suspicious. He should have been more suspicious, then. He should have acted on his suspicions instead of shoving them aside as the fancies of his paranoid mind. Maybe then…

Everything had been going well up until the moment it didn’t. The seller had met them at the specified location, looking appropriately nervous for someone who was facing HYDRA and acting appropriately greedy and morally bankrupt for someone who knew what they do and still went and sold them a deadly space rock. He had been a weedy man, ruddy-cheeked and in a suit that could have fit better, accompanied by two subtly armed guards whom James and Prescott ( _‘You can call me Owen, you know’_ ) entered into a rather half-hearted staring match with for the duration of the meeting. The weedy man had counted the money rather sloppily, James had found, then handed over the briefcase containing the FDAT with a grimy smile. O’Malley had opened it and even, after pulling on a pair of gloves, inspected it from all sides. It was more of an obelisk or statue than a rock, silver and oblong with straight sides and precise edges. On its own, it looked foreign but not especially threatening. After she was satisfied, O’Malley nodded and exchanged briefcases and platitudes with the weedy man, who in turn called off his guards and left.

“That was really anti-climactic to be honest.” Skye’s voice had crackled over the comms as soon as the seller’s vehicle had disappeared into the distance, and James had released the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

“That’s a good thing, agent.” O’Malley had replied tensely, flowing into motion. The two men had followed and met up back up with Skye and Jana at the car parked outside, where O’Malley swapped the briefcase she’d received for a decoy. Jana took the one that contained the newly purchased FDAT and together the team left the location. They’d then dropped Jana off at the nearest train station. Her part in the mission was for all intents and purposes over, her only remaining task now being to bring the artifact to safety. So far, so smooth, all according to plan. He should have been suspicious. He should have seen it coming a mile away. He fucked up.

They drove to the second meeting point, a mansion near the river shore. James’ hair was standing up on the back of his neck, cold sweat beading between his tense shoulders. They met the HYDRA people out on a wooden veranda. There were sparse lights throughout the spacious garden while the house itself was largely dark. The veranda was illuminated by strategically placed lanterns. Again, O’Malley took the lead, Skye acting as her accomplice this time. Prescott functioned as the hired muscle again while James had broken off their little convoy earlier and was now slinking through the shadows, ready to strike. Should he need to in order to protect his team. The plan calls for scoping out the perimeter, for now. Just as well, the thought of bloodshed makes him queasy. Isn’t that the grandest thing? The deadliest assassin of the century, afraid of killing-

Well, if all goes according to plan he won’t have to.

The HYDRA representative wore an expensive tailored suit and a slick smile, his hair only just beginning to grey at the temples. Surrounding him were six heavily armed guards. James calculated how to best take out most of these while O’Malley played her role as perfectly as she had done with the actual seller earlier. And everything had been going well, so well. Too well. He should have noticed, instead he couldn’t even pinpoint the moment the tilt happened, when a successful mission shifted into utter mayhem. It didn’t look like mayhem at first. Failure is a slick smile on a vaguely familiar face. Familiar? The HYDRA man, with his fancy suit and greying temples. James should have known, should have remembered (he doesn’t remember even now, he only knows). The team walks away to the car, the exchange apparently concluded – just according to plan. James checked compulsively for the handgun at his side. They had a whopping total of two handguns and a rifle between the four of them. If push came to shove and he had to put it to use, would he hesitate?

He watched the unsettlingly familiar man saunter back into the house while the team seemingly drove away. Then there was the screeching of tires in the distance, followed by the sound of metal crashing. It echoed loudly in the dark, quiet night and James’ blood ran cold.

 

When he reached the car, its engine was already revving back up again. The hood was a mess and the windshield was cracked, but generally the thing wasn’t totaled, at least. They must not have been going at any dangerous speed yet. He yanked open the front passenger door only to find the remaining handgun aimed straight at his face.

“Hey, it’s me. It’s Barnes. It’s me. What happened? What-”

“Christ, mate, I could’ve shot you in the face!” Prescott yelped, lowering the gun. James hardly acknowledged it in favor of quickly checking the three people over for injuries. Luckily, they appeared to be mostly unharmed save for a few scrapes and bruises. The same would certainly not have been the case if they had been going any faster.

“What happened?” James reiterated urgently. Why had the car crashed? Had someone shot out the tires? All four of them were flat, he could see that much in the dark, but not much more. Potential threats might be around, hiding in the thick foliage of the dark forest where they would be basically invisible. He tried to tune in his hearing, but came up short over the sputtering of the engine. O’Malley turned off the ignition, apparently having come to a similar conclusion as him or simply realizing that they wouldn’t get all that far in it anyway. He heard nothing except the harsh panting of his teammates and the quiet gurgle of the river. Skye had already scrambled out of the backseat, rifle in hand. O’Malley and Prescott were struggling with their seat belts, until the latter let out an annoyed grunt and pulled a knife from a sheath underneath his sleeve, cutting them loose.

“A trap.” O’Malley eventually replied, spitting the words out harshly. “Spikes on the ground. They never meant to let us leave.”

“Well observed. Too bad your realization came too late to save you.” A voice rang out from the darkness behind the vehicle, and a man casually strolled closer, blinding them with the harsh glare of his flashlight. James squinted, raising his free hand to shield his eyes. Based on audio cues he could still make the shot, but there had to be more of them yet concealed in the darkness, just waiting to pounce. His hand shook, but he raised it anyway.

As if to confirm his train of thought, he heard more footsteps, then another voice. This one, he recognized instantly. He’d heard it not two hours before coming from the weedy man who’d posed as their seller.

“I admit that I do love it when a plan comes together like this, don’t you?” he asked his associate, who had by now slightly lowered his flashlight, illuminating the four agents who stood there helpless, like sitting ducks, rather than blinding them. O’Malley let out a snarl, Prescott a curse, and Skye had raised the rifle to her shoulder properly, struggling to decide at which of the men to aim first.

It had all been going so well.

It had been a set-up from the start.

James felt the panic flow through his veins, burning like ice. They weren’t gonna make it. It had been over a week since James had last heard your voice, much longer since he’d last seen you.

More men had emerged from the darkness, at least six men who were all as heavily armed as they had been standing on that veranda moments ago. They were effectively surrounded, and O’Malley was trapped on the opposite side of the car without a weapon of her own. The man with the flashlight and the greying temples was pointing a gun straight at her head while the weedy man grinned smugly. James reckoned that if he surrendered himself to his training, he might be able to take out the guards, most of them at least. He was only too painfully aware of the carnage he could wreak if he wanted - (Steve’s battered face flashed before his inner eye, overlaid with the many faces of previous targets, all bleeding into one) – he just wasn’t sure he’d be able to pull himself out of it. Skye had the two leaders in her crosshairs, Prescott finally joining her in putting up his weapon, as if he’d only just remembered he had it.

“Now, now, no reason to be so …stand-offish.” Weedy man sneered and James could swear he heard O’Malley groan in annoyance. Then, after a wave of his hand, the guards stood aside, leaving a wide opening.

“What the-“ Prescott began, confusion flashing across his face. “What sick game are you playing?”

“Ah, a game indeed. Lower your weapon, Buchholz.” The man with the greying temples did as instructed, smiling that slick smile again. James felt sick.

“A game indeed,” Weedy man started again, “Or a sport. In any case, I do love hunting.”

A beat of silence passed, stretching unnaturally as the meaning behind these words sank in. the guards raised their weapons again, casual and fingers not yet on the triggers. They were still outgunned seven to three.

“Run.” O’Malley ordered with surprising calm.

* * *

 

You picked up the phone as soon as you had swallowed your coffee, wondering who could possibly need to speak to you at this time.

“___________?”

The tone of voice immediately told you that something was very, very wrong. Instantly you were on high alert.

“What is it?” you inquired urgently, “What’s wrong? Did something happen?”

* * *

 

What happened? _What happened?_ One moment he’d stood there, coiled like a spring.

“Run.” O’Malley had instructed, before launching herself bodily at the HYDRA men, knocking the gun out of Fancy Suit’s hand. Skye had reacted quickly, catching one guard in the shoulder and another in the gut before her rifle jammed, rendering it useless. He and Prescott had each given off a couple of shots, but in the sudden mayhem they hadn’t done as much damage as they should. In an act of spectacular insubordination, the three of them had vaulted over the crashed car in order to get to their SO, swinging around fists, feet, and rifle butts near indiscriminately.

The two men in suits were soft as butter or expensive leather, not an ounce of real fight in them, but their guards were more than capable of making up for it. And James fought them as much as himself, fought the ice running along his veins and the temptation to just give himself over. _You’re holding back,_ a niggling little voice jeered from the back of his mind, _you could rip them limb from limb with ease. You could, but you’re holding back. Stop holding back._ But he did, and hesitated, and caught hits like raindrops. They were losing. Skye was slammed into the side of the car so hard that the window cracked, Prescott received a hit that sent him sprawling over the roof and O’Malley howled when one of the goons got a hold of his weapon and released a small volley of bullets into her leg. Another exploited James’ momentary distraction to land a solid left hook right on his jaw, then hauled him up by the shoulders and rammed his thick fat skull up into James’ face. He felt his nose crunch and crack, felt the hot flash of blinding pain and when the guard pulled away, his leering face was painted with James’ blood. He fell to his knees with ringing ears, wheezing with his vision swimming. The guard sneered on, drawing a handgun from a holster on his thigh and pointing it at James’ head smugly.

“You should have run, little rats.”  James saw the guard’s finger tightening on the trigger; his spinning head making him see double and seemingly slowing time until his whole world was waiting for the hit, for darkness to fall.

A mighty thump later and the guard was falling sideways, the smug expression only slowly running into one of surprise. Skye stood there with the rifle poised to strike again, and dumbly James thought that this seemed familiar.

“Who’re you calling rat, squidward?” she spat, already dropping to one knee and slinging an arm under James’ shoulder in the futile attempt to move him up.

“Get it together!” she hissed when he barely budged, his head and mind still reeling, “Get up! Get UP!!!”

“Why couldn’t you damn brats just listen to me?” O’Malley was shouting to his right, being held up by Prescott. James shook himself and looked around, assessing the situation within split seconds. Wondrously, most of the guards were down for the count – for now. The two suited men, standing a little way back by now, looked slightly alarmed by this development, but already the first guards were stirring, and Weedy Man produced a phone from a pocket and started yelling for reinforcements into it. James started scrambling for the gun he’d dropped at some point, his hands shaking so badly he couldn’t grip it. _You are failing. You are failing the mission. You know what happens when you fail. What a disappointment you are._

Two shots rang out, almost simultaneously, and the suited HYDRA men dropped with pained groans.

“Dammit!” O’Malley bit out.

“We have to go!” Prescott urged, pulling her away when she went to re-aim. Apparently her shot had faltered because Weedy Man was already trying to push himself up again.

“We really gotta go!” Skye agreed, almost shouting into his ear.

“The bikes.” He muttered, finally managing to hoist himself up. “Gotta get to the bikes.”

They got up and ran while they could.

***

O’Malley’s steps faltered after mere meters, what with her maimed leg. Small wonder, but adrenaline is a miraculous substance. But even it can only do so much. The ominous stomping of heavily booted feet drew nearer, loud in the otherwise quiet night. James had not exactly performed well in the fight, but he still had his strength. O’Malley was holding them back, but she was a slight woman, wiry and sinewy and on the short side. Ignoring her protests, he and Prescott deposited her on his back. The going was easier that way. They still left a path like a herd of warthogs through the undergrowth, but at least this way they could actually put some distance between them and their pursuers. By the time they reached the place where the bikes were concealed O’Malley had stopped admonishing, and too much of her blood had seeped into James’ jacket. It was barely visible in the darkness – it had to be going on 2 am by now, too – but he smelt it all the same, felt the wet stickiness of it on his skin.

He deposited O’Malley on the seat of one of the machines as gently as he could while Prescott was already at hand with a makeshift compression bandage to stem the blood flow.

“Get her to a hospital as quickly as you can.” Prescott was saying to Skye as he tied the bandage. “Follow the main road back in the direction we came from. There must be one in the city. We only passed through on the edges. You’ll have to…”

“What’s hospital in German?” Skye asked, already taking her place and starting the engine. “There should be signs, right?”

“Krankenhaus.” James informed her. “There should be a symbol on street signs. A red cross. Follow that.”

“Like The Red Cross red cross?”

“Yeah, like that. Have them check you out, too. You took a few nasty hits.”

She nodded. “What about you?”

“We’ll be right behind you. Go!” Prescott urged, stepping away from the bike so she could drive unhindered. Skye’s eyes sought James’ for a moment, wide and fearful. She looked pretty banged up herself. There was shouting in the distance, the sounds of boots and the occasional glare of a flashlight.

“Go!” he mouthed, “We’ll meet you there. Go!”

“You better!” she half sobbed; the engine roared and the women took off towards the main road. The two men stood a moment, gazing after the retreating silhouette like in trance.

“We won’t be right behind them, will we?” he asked Prescott, who nodded absently before meeting his gaze.

“Go if you want. I’ll lead these squid twits on a wild goose chase.”

James scoffed. The first glint of a flashlight grazed over them.

“Let’s give’em hell, Owen.”

Owen smirked, even if it was cracked at the edges. “You know, I never got your first name, Agent Barnes.”

“I …James. My name is James.”

“Okay, James,” Owen threw a cautious glance over his shoulder, “Would you take point? My eyes haven’t been what they used to be since… oh well, that’s a longer story.”

***

Just when James thought that this damn forest would never end they came upon the water’s edge, the Hydra goons hot on their heels. There had to be at least ten, if not more. Owen drew his gun.

“We should split up, pick the wankers off one by one.” Owen muttered lowly while their pursuers drew closer, closer, _closer._ James nodded even though he knew he had only three bullets left.

“Crap, I’ve only got two bullets left. You?”

“Three.”

Owen’s mouth set in a thin line, then he handed James his gun. “Make each shot count.”

“What about you?”

Owen opened his jacket to reveal an array of knives. Some slots were already empty; he must have used them in the fight at the car.

A crack of dry wood to their left set them off in opposite directions. The night was surprisingly cold for August. James shivered as the sweat on his skin cooled in the night air, or at least he told himself it was the cold that made him shiver. He’d snared about half of the guards, leading them in a wide circle. At one point he managed to lose his tail for long enough to climb up on one of the numerous trees and onto a good vantage point. No one ever looks above for threats. Why did no one ever look up?

He could very faintly hear fighting in the distance, the singing and slicing of steel and the panting and groaning of wounded men, the odd death rattle. James had three bullets left and five pursuers. Three of whom were just now crossing beneath his perch. His hand still shook. _Get it together. Clean shots, they won’t feel a thing. It’s not like they don’t deserve…_

 _No!_ he thought vehemently, _I don’t do that anymore. I don’t want_ …

_It’s them or you, and yours. Three clean headshots. It would be more mercy than they deserve._

_Maybe they’ll just go on, if I’m quiet enough, they’ll just walk away…_

_No, silly, silly asset. We don’t leave loose ends. You don’t want to fail your mission, do you?_

James pressed his hands against his temples until the pressure numbed all other sensations.

James Buchanan Barnes, your name is James Buchanan Barnes, Sergeant, 32557…32557… 038. 32557038038038. Barnes, Sergeant, 32557038. _Barnes, Sergeant, 32557038. Barnes, Sergeant, 32557038. Barnes Sergeant 32557038. BarnesSergeant32557038. Barnesseargeant32557038barnessergeant32557038barnesseargeant32557038barnessergeant32557…_

A scream tore through the otherwise quiet night, jolting James from his mantra. A desperate, feral yowl. He knew that voice. Beneath his tree perch, all was clear. He landed softly, letting his joints absorb the impact, and took off running as soon as his feet connected with the ground. He made a sharp turn towards the river shore, or was it a lake at this point? There was so much water it became hard to keep track. He picked his way along the shore in any case. Progress was faster this way.

Owen fought back, or at least he was trying to even though it was clear that his uncoordinated and faltering attacks couldn’t hurt squash a resting fly. Three men were upon him, jeering, smug. Not the same ones who had pursued James; these were still unaccounted for. James jumped the biggest one first, vaulted onto his back and tightened his left arm around the man’s throat. It wasn’t an especially refined move. The guy clawed like a man drowning, tearing at James’ sleeve, ripping off his glove. James let him drop when he stopped struggling. The two remaining guards gaped at the glinting metal of his arm.

“Fuck.” One said, “Fuck, it’s him. It’s the Soldier!”

The second guard raised his gun with an evil grin. “Hail HYDRA.” He said, then quickly swerved and released a volley into Owen’s slumped form, one leg in the river, before swinging his weapon around again. He was interrupted quite abruptly in this movement by James’ foot, making him smash into his still gaping colleague and putting the both of them through a tree.

“Hail this you twats!” Owen cheered wetly, weakly. James dropped to his knees beside the other man, trying to stem the bleeding but there were too many wounds, too much blood staining the grass and dissolving lazily into the water.

“No. Nononono, come on! Come on!”

“I’m done, mate. I’m done. It’s okay, just get …just ge…”

* * *

 

Skye was worried, and tired, and exhausted. She hurt all over, and also she might have cried a bit out of pure frustration, and possibly a bit of shock. She had found the hospital alright, but it had taken almost half an hour to get there, even with how madly she had been speeding. Agent O’Malley was alive though, so that was good, right? Only the men hadn’t followed like they said they would, and she’d done the only thing she could think of and called May, who had then appeared not an hour later, just as the sun started to rise. Still no sign of either James or Owen Prescott. That is, until the window clicked in the private room May had organized somehow and then there he stood, bloody and tattered and broken-nosed, his face half purple and his eyes hollow. He took one look at the three women and then a heavy step towards the unoccupied bed, gently depositing Prescott’s lifeless frame on the mattress. He fixed May with a broken, weary look.

“You thought I was ready.” He said, gravelly and so softly Skye could barely make out the words even though she was not three feet away from him. May held his gaze.

“Yes.”

His eyes flitted down to the corpse on the bed in front of him. Something twisted in his expression before his face fell blank, empty.

“You were wrong.”

* * *

 

“I don’t know,” Skye’s voice sounded agitated, “He’s in a bad way, _______. Hasn’t said a word in almost four days now and he …we have these holding cells, for interrogation? All enforced walls and super-soundproofing and all that? He locked himself in one of those and he’s _literally beating himself up_ in there. I don’t know what else to do-“

You swallowed hard, letting this sink in, trying to clamp down the turmoil of emotions started by those words. There was a sound in the background on Skye’s end, like a feral howling and screaming and sobbing. It was muted but it sounded barely human. It sounded like pure anguish.

“Are you… are you standing in front of that cell right now?” you asked cautiously, hoping against hope that the answer would be ‘no’, that this wasn’t James, your Jamie, you were hearing.

“Yes.” Skye said very softly. “He …we’ve tried everything and …and I was hoping that maybe you…”

You had no idea what you could possibly do in this situation, not even knowing what had triggered it, but that wouldn’t keep you from trying.

“Does that cell thing have some kind of speaker system you can put me on for now?”

“Yeah, it does.”

“Okay, patch me through. And then after, we’ll talk about the fact that this went on for three whole days before you called me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry  
> someone cry with me abt the civil war trailer (why marvel when I have done nothing but love and support you)


	33. Lacrimosa, Dies Irae

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my lovelies! How have you been? Thank you very much for the feedback since the last update; it always makes my day to see kudos or read a new comment^^  
> whew, somehow this turned out longer than I anticipated, which means the stuff I actually already wanted to get to has been postponed until the next chapter, which I sadly cannot promise you will be up still this year what with the holidays coming up and all. I shall try.  
> anyway, enjoy this^^

_You are tired,_

_(I think)_

_And so am I._

_Tired of things that break, and—_

_Just tired._

_So am I._

_Come with me, then,_

_And we’ll leave it far and far away—_

_(Only you and I, understand!)_

_E.E. Cummings – You are tired (I think)_

* * *

 

James Barnes was beginning to suspect that he had a rather complicated relationship with pain when he couldn’t stop trying to put his fist through a very unyielding, reinforced wall even though he’d razed away the last slivers of skin on his knuckles about four punches ago. To say nothing of the way the bones in his hand and arm would shift and creak with nearly every movement now.

He’d let himself be herded back onto the Bus, ignoring everyone’s attempts to get him to respond and slipping away at the first opportunity. By the time Skye had noticed he wasn’t walking behind her anymore he’d already sealed the interrogation chamber from the inside and by the time the team had arrived at the door, he’d been too submerged in his own head to pay them any attention. He’d only meant to be alone for a while, away from sympathetic eyes and well-meaning words. But then the pain had become too intense and he’d just lost it. It was like his body couldn’t physically contain it, and without a release he’d explode on the spot, like a grenade. That might have been days or hours ago. He didn’t know, only knew that to replace the mental anguish with physical pain was cathartic at first and became addictive at some point. He felt like once he’d started screaming it was impossible to stop.

The walls were dented in places, the smooth matte finish scratched where he’d caught it with his left. Better the wall than a person.

There were smears of blood where he’d used his right. Blood. When had his life started to be steeped in blood?

***

"You look so handsome, my darling. I almost wish your father could see you now." Winnifred Barnes' eyes were definitely dewy as she fretted over her eldest son's uniform, smoothing out the lapels and collar as she had done countless times for her husband.

"He wouldn't really be pleased with me going to war though, Ma." Bucky pointed out, eyes scanning the crowd for a mop of blonde hair over bony shoulders. Part of him knew Steve wouldn't come, couldn't come probably, since they'd likely finally caught him falsifying his enlistment forms. Still, he hoped his friend would be there to see him off. After basically leaving him standing there the night before it was really the least he could do. There was still time, he tried to calm himself. If Steve didn't turn up he'd ask Becky to find out what had happened to the little troublemaker.

"He wouldn't be pleased that there was a war on again, and that you had to go fight it, there's a difference, James." his mother admonished mildly, brushing an imaginary fleck of dust from his shoulder. He stifled a sigh. Many of the other men at the dock seemed rather gung-ho about the prospect of dying in some muddy trench in Europe. If he were to be quite honest with himself, he didn't really want to go. At all. In his more solemn moments he'd heaped abominable curses upon the head of every statesman who had decided their nation ought to join this madness. Resentment wasn't one of his more charming features. He didn't want to go, but he had to, and James Barnes was nothing if not dutiful - a dutiful son, brother, friend, citizen. He didn't much like that he had to go either, and in a fit of misguided spite had tried to enlist to forestall the draft that was certain to arrive anyway, just to have that little illusion that he had any say in his fate. The drafting letter had arrived that same morning.

"You must write as often as you can, Bucky!" eighteen-year-old Rose implored him very earnestly, and their youngest, Julian mumbled that he'd miss him and _how dare you leave me alone among all those girls_ , which earned the fifteen-year-old a smack on the arm. Bucky would never admit it to the boy's face but he was glad his baby brother was too young to be drafted, and since he was a bit of a late bloomer, also unlikely to be accepted should he try to enlist. This brought his thoughts back to Steve, still for all intents and purposes missing in action. He tried not to worry, he really did. In fact he was still quite mad about the previous night. But still...

“Jamie?” a voice called out behind him, making him turn his back on his family reflexively.

“________? How are you here?”

You looked sad, frowning a moment and crossing your arms. You were wearing the dress from the summer party again, with the skirt that twirled so nicely when you two danced.

“Jamie,” you said again, “I’m not really there. I mean I’m not where you are.” – No, of course not. Why would you be standing at New York Harbor in 1942? He wasn’t stupid –

“I’m just calling to check on you. I was told you weren’t doing too well at the moment.” You sighed and uncrossed your arms, seemingly oblivious to the way the wind whipped at your skirt and hair. He looked back at his family, then threw another glance over the crowd, still not finding the familiar blond head. When he looked down one of his hands was metal and the other bloodied, the knuckles bared to the bone.

“D’you wanna tell me what’s wrong, my darling?”

He almost let out a bitter laugh, tugging at the sleeves of his smart uniform and watching the fabric turn to shreds under his touch. He should have known it couldn’t last. It was foolish to hang on to hope still.

“I waited until the last damn moment for Steve to turn up, and he never did. I went to war …I was going away to war for fuck’s sake! I just wanted to say good-bye and he never even showed. I remember I was so mad I wouldn’t even write him the first three months. And then it turned out he had already followed me. I didn’t know that then, of course, not until he suddenly appeared at the Hydra facility where I …we …”

He looked up again, taking in your furrowed brows. He wanted to reach out and ask for comfort, to have you lace your fingers with his the way you used to, but shrank back. Not with his mangled, gory hands.

“That’s not all, is it?” you pressed on with a small sad smile. He shook his head. Stepped away from his Ma and closer to you and lowered his voice.

“I never wanted to fight.” He admitted, considering his maimed hands for a moment. You were leaning against a stack of carts and boxes, and he moved to your side, heavily sitting down on one. He felt too heavy suddenly, like the ground was pulling him down.

“All my life, I never wanted to fight, but there was always something to fight for, or against, always …somehow not fighting was always the worse option. Now I wonder whether that’s just a fiction I tell myself. Maybe violence is in my nature.”

He sighed wearily and let his head loll to the side until it rested against your side, his hat tumbling to the ground in the process. The seagulls screeched overhead as you began carding your hand through his hair soothingly. This was so nice, but he knew that within the next few minutes he’d have to get up and board that ship anchored some yards behind. The ship that would take him over to Europe so he could die in a war only to be born again, remade as death.

“I do hate seeing you suffer, especially when there isn’t anything I can do to help you, my darling.”

He smiled despite himself. Yeah, this was definitely some sort of day dream if you called him ‘darling’. He probably liked the sound of it too much.

“You already are, even if you’re not really real.” He mumbled nuzzling further into your side. Just a little while longer-

“Oh, I’m very real, I’m just not really there with you.” You replied, flicking his ear playfully. “You’re not alone though, but I need you to do something for me. You are the only one who can, okay?”

“What is it?” he mumbled unwillingly. This was nice, even if he was aching all over, even if it wasn’t real and even if in time his ship would leave.

“Look around,” you said, hand resting lightly on the base of his skull, “There’s a door. You need to unlock it, okay? You need to let them help you. Can you do that? For me?”

He pried his eyes open and looked around. There was indeed a door, just behind his mother. He looked back at the ship, its grey hull towering over the bustle of people gathered at the harbor. You tangled your fingers in his hair again, making him look up at you.

“Please, Jamie.”

“I can’t. I need to board that ship.” He didn’t want to board the ship. The ship would carry him to his death.

“Jamie, listen to me: You already did that. You got on board of that ship a long time ago. It’s done; no need to tread the same old path again. Look at the door.” He did so. The door was black and solid looked anything but inviting. He couldn’t tell what awaited him behind it. But if you said to go there it couldn’t be that bad, right? He trusted you. You wouldn’t send him anywhere if you knew it was worse there than where he’d been headed before.

“Please my darling, unlock the door.”

He frowned. At the rate this was going he’d rather stay right where he was. Wherever that was. But then again, how could he refuse you? He straightened up and rose to his feet. His mother caught his eyes when he approached, her gaze softening as she reached for his lapels again.

“You chose the right way, my darling boy.” She whispered softly, stretching to place a light kiss on his forehead. He gulped and turned towards the door. It was stuck at first, but when he pushed harder it budged and eventually swung open.

 ***

Skye had been tense from the moment she’d connected her phone to the cell’s speaker system. At least the screaming from inside had stopped fairly quickly, but then again it had before so she tried not to get her hopes up. Then the incessant banging ceased and she allowed herself a glimmer of it. Hope, that is. Faith in her best friend, too. She’d never told _him_ that, of course, but you were _her_ Bucky, her loyal friend from the time she was five years old and put into yet another foster home. Itty bitty middle school Skye could never have expected the actual real deal to drop around, much less envision becoming friends with him, too. But that’s what he was now, even more so than a valued and relied-upon partner. He was her friend.

So when her friend slowly pushed open the door and took a heavy, hesitant step outside looking about ten times worse than he had going in, she gasped. And swore. Loudly. He looked at her and quirked the wriest little smirk, like his face wasn’t half bruised and swollen and he wasn’t still covered in the crusted blood of at least three different people.

“Hey kid…” he muttered, breathy and voiceless, which shouldn’t surprise her since she’d been right there the whole time he’d been screaming himself hoarse.

“Dipshit.” She replied tearily, then slung his left arm over her shoulders. The right one looked oddly angled in places and his knuckles were raw.

He let himself be led to the infirmary, not even trying to resist when the medical team get to work on him. It’s an impressive list he’s managed to build up during these last few days. Apart from the dehydration and the injuries sustained courtesy of the Merry Murder Squid Club, he’s somehow managed to break his arm in two places and his hand in four, cracked some ribs and his collarbone, and then some. The skin adjoining to the metal shoulder was scarred before, but now he seems to have scratched it bloody and torn again, even through the fabric of his jacket and shirt. Both of which are ruined tatters now. He hardly reacts to the bones being set, even though the mere sounds of it make Skye’s stomach churn uneasily. It’s unsettling how calm he is now, though calm is perhaps not the right word. It’s more like he wore himself out. Skye retreated a little way while the medical staff patched him back up, hooked him up to an IV for fluids and another for pain killers.

By the time he’s finally all settled she’s so exhausted that the idea of a mid-morning nap sounds nothing short of exhilarating. But that’ll have to wait. She raised the phone to her ear again, finishing her report to you. She did owe you that much, even if-

“You can’t tell me why, can you? Some more of that confidentiality clearance level bullshit, right?” you muttered darkly when she was done rattling off the list of injuries. She really wished she could tell you everything then.

“It’s not for me to tell.” She said instead, hearing your hollow laugh from the other end of the line.

“I get it, really, I do. Besides, if it’s so secret I can guess. I’m not stupid, you know.”

“I do. I _do_ know. I’m sorry.”

You sighed, already done with this day. You couldn’t get into this now, not when you were already an hour behind on your schedule and an unidentified number had been trying to reach you for the better part of that hour.

“We’ll talk later. Take care. I was supposed to be at work twenty minutes ago. Bye.”

“Yeah, bye. And _________? Thank you.”

The line disconnected and Skye stepped up to James’ bedside. He seemed to have already dozed off, and the doctor informed her that he’d been given a mild sedative and would have to stay for at least two days for observation. Skye nodded along reflexively.

“Blankets…” she murmured absently, “He …he’s gonna get cold, he needs more blankets.” The ones they had in the infirmary were way too thin. His now splinted fingers were already ice-cold. “I’ll get it. Don’t …don’t worry, I’ll get it.” Skye said to the doctor, who was already rummaging through a cupboard.

***

“You’re such an ass, Barnes.” Are the first words he hears when he comes back to.

“How do you feel?” is the second thing he hears, all before he’s even opened his eyes, so maybe if he just pretends…

“I know you’re awake, dipshit.”

Busted. He attempts to crack open one eye, which fails because that eye is swollen shut. He goes for the other, blinking slowly. Skye’s frowning face comes into view, albeit blearily.

“Hey kid.” He rasps, noting how his throat feels very dry.

“Don’t ‘hey kid’ me, dipshit. You don’t get to do that after that BS you pulled. You know, I made a promise to my friend and you’re making it very difficult to keep that promise. So, how are you feeling?” Skye stepped closer, thankfully looking more worried than genuinely annoyed. Which was fair enough, he supposed, even though he didn’t fully comprehend it. Quickly taking stock of his body and his injuries, he came to the conclusion that he hurt pretty much all over, the sensations dulled by painkillers. Most of it was his own doing.

“Like I got run over by a truck. Or a tank? Which is a legitimate comparison because I think that might have happened to me once. That or fighting a bear. I think I might have fought a bear once. In Siberia. Ha, Si-bear-ia …Don’t end up in a gulag.” He ended solemnly.

Skye’s lip twitched faintly at his drawled out and fairly rambly answer.

“No kidding. Your black eye has a black eye.”

He snorted at that, dizzy as the sedatives coursing through his bloodstream threatened to pull him back under. He blinked harshly, fighting to keep his eyes open. Skye had been hurt, too.

“How’re you doing, kid?” She looked mostly alright, though she held herself a bit stiffly if he was not mistaken.

“Just some bruising; nothing that rest, icing and time won’t fix. Don’t you worry about me, Sarge.”

“Can’t help it, partner.” He mumbled, eyes drooping.

“Rest.” Skye urged him, softer now as she stepped closer and pulled up the blankets a bit. It was warm, the blankets soft on his bare skin. And he was so tired, affected by such bone-deep exhaustion. Just this once, he didn’t have it in him to fight any more.  

When he next awoke it seemed to be morning judging by the ratio of Dr Constantiniou’s yawns to the sips of coffee she took. She yawned her ‘good morning’ to him and checked his vitals and responses, then adjusted the cocktail of medication that fed into his arm through an IV. James felt clearer now, more alert. His eye wasn’t quite as swollen anymore. Even the howling inside his mind had abated somewhat. On the downside, his throat was drier than sandpaper and his stomach felt moments away from digesting itself.

“What time is it?” he asked the doctor, stuffily through his still broken nose. The infirmary has no windows, so he can’t take any clues from the position of the sun or moon outside.

“Tuesday, at the ungodly hour of 7:21 am.” Dr Constatiniou yawned, then jotted something down on the clipboard at the foot of his bed. That meant he spent at least two days locked in that cell.

“Okay, and when can I go?”

The good doctor stopped short, mouth twisting unwillingly a moment.

“Oh no, you’re not going anywhere anytime soon. For one, your blood pressure really worries me. And then there’s the obvious stuff.” She said with a pointed look at where he’d been absently picking at the bandaging on his left shoulder. He dropped his hand immediately, caught somewhere between guilt, anger and panic. He’s just about to voice a protest he knows will likely be futile when he sees Skye appearing in the doorway, followed closely by Jemma. The two girls shuffle in with a greeting towards the doctor and a steaming bowl of what smells enticingly like chicken soup.

“This alright, doc?” Skye asked as Jemma put the bowl down in front of James and he could have hugged her right then. Dr Constantiniou nodded, pouring a cup of water for him and setting it down next to the bowl.

“Slowly or you’ll throw up, Mr Barnes.” She warns, arms crossed and brows raised. He nods and rasps his sincere ‘ _thank you_ ’s before taking a cautious sip of the water. It feels like a sharp nail scratching down the inside of his throat at first, but only shortly before the relief follows and he really has to pace himself in order to not just down the entire cup in one go. He feels like he could drain a large lake right about now. The soup is hot and he’s so famished that he neglects to let his first spoonful cool down a bit. Thankfully the good doctor has retreated into her office for now and the girls keep up a steady flow up light conversation or this would easily be far more awkward than it is. They’d also brought him a change of clothes, which he was incredibly grateful for – the metal of the arm chafed like something fierce – and a selection of books. Which was well enough seeing as he would apparently be stuck here for the foreseeable future. Well done, Barnes. Excellent work.

During the following few days he got other visitors as well. Mack smuggled in a bowl of mac’n’cheese and a deck of cards, distracting James from his boredom for a blessed few hours and releasing him from the tedium of bland hospital food. How did they even have bland hospital food here? He was currently the only patient. There was only the communal kitchen. It didn’t make any bloody sense.

“I really want to hug you right now.” James had confessed around a mouthful of cheesy pasta heaven, and the other man had laughed and squeezed the shoulder James hadn’t broken by trying to put his fist through a reinforced wall. And then he had destroyed him at skat.

Trip came by late every morning after the doctor had done her round. He had a true gift for story-telling and James found himself supplying details he hadn’t known he still knew to the stories Trip recounted as he had gotten them from Gabe.

Fitz typically stopped by around lunch with a bowlful of sweets pilfered from the kitchen. They didn’t talk much between the two of them. There was no need. Fitz would set up his tablet and they’d watch an episode of a show called the ‘Great British Bake Off’. Something about a variety of Brits scrambling for deadlines on tarts was oddly calming somehow.

May showed up late that in the evening when James, predictably, had trouble finding any rest over the turmoil inside his mind. Every time he attempted to close his eyes Owen Prescott’s pale face would look up at him from a backdrop of bloodied water.

“You look like shit.” Well, she was a blunt one when she deigned to speak. Then again more than half his face was bruised extensively despite the generous application of ice packs.

“I’m guessing the debrief can’t wait any longer.” He spat more harshly than he’d intended. His head hurt and his demons howled, not that this was an acceptable excuse. The look he got in response very eloquently told him to cut the crap or else. May took a seat in the chair that had already magically popped up at James’ bedside during the day. She regarded him silently for a moment before speaking.

“I’m worried about you, same as everyone else.”

His throat closed up which resulted in a strange, indefinable noise. The corner of May’s lips tugged up a moment in a wry smile before she continued.

“All of them came by today, didn’t they? Skye, Fitzsimmons, Trip, Mack-“ James nodded mutely, not trusting his voice. “That was when you were conscious again. They all came as soon as Skye brought you here as well. And we all tried to get you to open up that cell. I guess you didn’t quite catch that…”

He couldn’t flee, he realized with a jolt of panic. He couldn’t get away; he had to sit through it and listen to …whatever this was supposed to be. May was saying a lot of words at once with the obvious purpose of making him feel better and it was unsettling.

“Calling Miss __________ was a last resort really. If that hadn’t worked out either I don’t know what else we could have done.”

“_________? She …that was real?” he stuttered, suddenly having found his voice again. May paused to give him a strange look.

“…Yes.”

“Oh.” Frankly, he didn’t know what to do with this information. He’d thought he’d made it all up; just his fractured psyche longing to bring some peace. _My darling._

May for her part seemed genuinely surprised.

“You thought that was all in your head?”

He preferred not to answer this.

“Is that a frequent thing?”

“Listen, I’m not going to admit to you that I hallucinate on the regular. You’ll lock me up.”

“We will do no such thing.” May interrupted, passionately by her standards, and he must have looked completely shell-shocked by the declaration because she proceeded. “You’ve had more than enough of that already.”

“But you still wanna make sure I won’t try to put my head through a wall when you let me outta here.” he gestured vaguely at the deserted infirmary. May smiled.

“Naturally.”

“I’m sorry…” he began, faltering quickly. May clasped her hands and looked at him expectantly, silently prompting him to continue.

“I’m sorry for what I said in Berlin …Potsdam …whatever. It’s not your fault I’m such an impossible situation.”

“You’re right. It’s not.” Well, somehow he hadn’t really expected _that_. “It’s not yours either, but nonetheless we are the ones left to deal with what happens to us. I supported the decision to let you come out into the field because I thought it was better than to wait until you crawl up the walls cooped up in here, or to risk you doing something stupid and reckless.”

“Like locking myself in an interrogation cell for days?” James interjected wryly.

“Or trying to leave. Trying to repay your debts by yourself. I thought it would be safer to provide a …supervised environment. I was aware of the risks, the possible consequences. I suppose I just hoped it wouldn’t come to that.”

“We rarely get what we want.” James concluded morosely. May nodded her agreement, lost in thought for a moment before she refocused on him.

“I want you to promise me one thing, Sergeant Barnes.”

“James.” he offered reflexively, surprising himself as much as Agent May.

“James, I want you to promise me that you’ll try to stop bottling up your struggles like you have been.”

A long moment passed between them. James appreciated the way Agent May was comfortable with silences.

“I’ll try. That’s all I can promise.”

“That’s good enough.” They shared a muted smile. James felt the pull of exhaustion mixed with the mild sedatives and pain killer still feeding into his bloodstream, although at a much reduced rate.

“Thank you, Agent May.”

“Melinda.”

“Thank you.”

“Good night.”

***

Towards the end of the week he was finally released from the infirmary, though going on missions was of course out of the question for the near future. During the day he could distract himself well enough by hanging around the labs or resuming his work in the archives. But at night the nightmares came back with a vengeance, and conclusively the sleeping pattern that barely existed as it was took a turn for the worse. James wrote a lot, trying to find an outlet like he had promised, but it was like his mind was a bottomless lake of misery and no matter how much he poured out the level just wouldn’t drop. _How did I become this?_

At night, when he felt too close to drowning, he would leave his room and go exploring. The Playground was a large compound, and there were even now still corners of it he hadn’t inspected. For example there was a corridor low on the underground levels. Heavy, reinforced

steel doors labelled with single blocked letters, A all the way through to J. Starting with A, he found vault-like rooms behind the doors. A through to C were empty as far as he could tell. The layout is the same in vault D as it is in the previous rooms.

There was a short straight flight of stairs leading down into a dark, oblong room bare except for a chair and some sort of control panel. There had been no chairs in A to C. James made his way downwards swiftly. The chair faced a wall that is opaque and a milky off-white in color, whereas all the other walls are black. With his enhanced hearing he picked up on a slight rustling noise on the other side of the opaque wall.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo, what do you all think?  
> Is May mom-ing hard enough?  
> Did you like the dream sequence?  
> What's in the vault? (okay, this one is easy if you've seen AoS s2. and remember)  
> What is your general opinion on cliffhangers? (personally I have a love-hate relationship with them)  
> Anything else you noticed. Or thought. Or felt. I wanna hear it. Really, I do.


	34. Strawman Fallacy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and a happy new year to you all!  
> Special greetings to all new readers and warm greetings to all 'old' readers ;) and a big thanks to everyone who left feedback  
> Sorry for taking a little while with updating. Unfortunately real life has had some developments that take up a lot of my time and energy at the moment, but I don't want to bore you with details of my current failings. Suffice to say that it can only really get better (but keeping your fingers crossed for me would certainly be appreciated^^)  
> Warnings for this chapter: Tony Stark, discussion of death and near death experiences, therapeutic baking, Hydra dickery, surgical procedures without proper anesthesia, some gore (but not too graphic I hope)

_"We must not confuse dissent with disloyalty._  
_..._  
_We will not be driven by fear into an age of unreason_  
_..._  
_We can deny our heritage and our history, but we cannot escape responsibility for the result._  
_..._  
_We cannot defend freedom abroad by deserting it at home."_

_Good Night and Good Luck, Edward R. Murrow_

* * *

 

_There was a short straight flight of stairs leading down into a dark, oblong room bare except for a chair and some sort of control panel. There had been no chairs in A to C. James made his way downwards swiftly. The chair faced a wall that is opaque and a milky off-white in color, whereas all the other walls are black. With his enhanced hearing he picked up on a slight rustling noise on the other side of the opaque wall._

He froze at the sound, standing stock still and straining his ears with the intent of picking up on the sound again. He himself had been quiet in descending the stairs, so unless who- or whatever was on the other side of that wall had equally as advanced senses he shouldn’t have been noticed. James waited in this position for a full ten minutes, mentally counting down the seconds. During this time, the entire room remained deathly quiet to the point James doubted he’d ever really heard anything in the first place. Maybe it had just been airflow (yeah right); maybe it had even been his own wardrobe. He remained still for another minute, then crept back up the stairs soundlessly. He inspected the remainder of the vaults, finding nothing outstanding in any of them. He’d had a closer look at the panel in the last one. It didn’t seem to be very difficult to operate, altogether. By the time he was finished his eyes were finally starting to droop a little. The clock on the oven in the kitchen informed him that he’d made it to 5:36 am today, which was the earliest yet, or the latest depending on how one looked at it. Rolling his stiff shoulders carefully, he went back to his quarters, wincing at the pull of pain as the motion tugged at the fracture in his collarbone. This much was familiar. This had happened before. _It’s because the metal of the arm doesn’t yield the way flesh and bone do_ , a voice supplied from the back of his mind, _it’s like a car bumper_. Yeah, alright. James yawned and stretched out on the bed after carefully removing the sling from his other arm, pulling the blankets up to his chest for a little cat nap before the base would erupt into activity again. The bandages on his hand would need to be changed today. That wouldn’t be pleasant, even though it was all healing over quite well. Of course there would be scarring, but then again he was seemingly collecting scar tissue. It’s not like one spot more or less mattered. _What bothers me is that you were hurt so badly in the first place._ _\- My Pa used to say that scars were the marks of survivors._

***

Tony Stark was growing irritated. Being who he was he was decidedly not used to his calls being ignored or downright rejected. By now he had moved up into his living room, nursing another mug of coffee and only half paying attention to a news report about an apparent massacre in Germany. Something about a number of men having been found in a rather wide radius around a lakeside villa some way out of Berlin. The images were unsettling, a lot of bullet holes and blood, and the rather unsavory image of two of the apparent victims having been very closely acquainted with a now splintered tree. Especially their guts seemed to be quite violently acquainted with those splinters. Tony turned away from the sight, grunting with grim satisfaction when the reporter announced that the men appeared to have been operatives of HYDRA. Now if only this elusive junior manager lady would pick up her damn phone that would be great. Tony set down his coffee for a moment and stretched as JARVIS re-dialed. Your personnel file had been drawn up before Tony for the better part of the morning now. He vaguely remembered interviewing you for the scholarship that would enable you to attend MIT some years ago, before he became Iron Man and his life took an irreversible turn for the weirder. But also somehow better, if infinitely more painful sometimes. Anyway, that had been the Maria Stark Scholarship. Establishing it had been one of Tony’s first moves when he’d inherited the company. Howard had wanted to give his wife the means to create a scholarship according to her own design, but then they had both died before anything substantial could be achieved. Maria had wanted to sponsor kids from underprivileged backgrounds, especially girls who wanted to get into the STEM fields. Tony had tried to keep in line with his mother’s vision, creating a foundation to the same end. So, the Maria Stark Foundation gave out one very prestigious scholarship per year, and Tony had made it his personal responsibility to interview the final candidates, and his prerogative to choose the winner. You must have impressed him if he chose you, though he didn’t exactly remember how. A life between partying and inventing had taken its toll on his memories it seemed. He was close to giving up when the line finally connected, your harried voice sounding through the speakers.

“Miss ________, this is Tony Stark. Do you have a moment to spare?” A beat of silence punctuated by an indrawn breath.

“I suppose I must have all the moments the guy who pays me my salary could ever possibly need me to spare.”

“Snarky. I like it. I see why our good Captain is so fond of you.” He rambled, glancing down at the spread of tabloids on the coffee table. The tabloids he wasn’t supposed to mention. The tabloids loudly inquiring after the mystery woman Captain America was apparently seeing, complete with grainy photos in which next to nothing was discernible about the woman in question except that she was, in all likelihood, a woman. The rainbow press being what it is had lapped it up nonetheless, trashy reporters having a field day with reactions on all ends of the spectrum, ranging from ‘how dare he tear our country to shreds (which was hardly what happened) and be all happy now?’ all the way to the ‘definitive scoop on the wedding of the century’. Tony still wondered how not a single of those salivating pulp writers had found out your identity. They loved their scandals, but they were sneaky like that, as Tony knew all too well from own experience. Probably Pepper’s doing; she could put the fear of God in greater men than some sub-par journalists.

“Mr Stark, I appreciate that you’re probably a very busy man, but it just so happens that I have a part of your company to run which, though admittedly small, still has its demands on my time and energy, so what exactly is it you want from me?”

“Yes, well, after you’ve recently come up on my radar due to, shall we say _special involvement_ with mutual acquaintances…”

“Yes?” prompted your voice, sounding strained. It would sound progressively more strained as the conversation went on. Tony did notice this, but decided not to let that deter him yet.

“I also reviewed your work from your time at MIT, and I gotta say that’s some quite impressive stuff right there. Especially the work you did for your graduation project.”

“Thank you, but that was a group project.”

“Be that as it may, I could see from your file that you’re very skilled. You could have easily gone into R&D.”

“That’s kind of you to say, even if it’s not actually true.” you interjected. Sure, you had entered college with the dream of building the prostheses of tomorrow, but during your studies and work life you had found that other people were much better suited to that task, whereas you were rather more skilled at bringing these people together and managing them. Still, you thought back fondly on your hand. Because of course you’d had to tackle one of the most anatomically complex parts of the human body for your final project. Which was also in high demand, since people mostly lost arms or legs. So you and your fellow students had built a hand, complete with a few new techniques for processing the materials. There were patents and everything. You were actually quite proud of your hand and it still sat in a special box in a sideboard in your living room. The question was, what did Tony Stark want with your hand?

“Well, it’s kind of a secret project, but I would like you to help build an arm. Means will be provided, of course.” Oh, okay. You let this sink in for a moment. You knew from Steve and Sam that Tony Stark knew about your side dealings with sheltering fugitive one-armed amnesiac assassins. It wasn’t much of a stretch to deduce who that hypothetical arm was for, but you didn’t want to think about the plethora of potential implications just yet. Like what reason Tony Stark could have for wanting to personally commission a prosthetic for a man he didn’t even know. Or what was to become of the arm built by HYDRA (not even mentioning how you could never construct anything like it, for that matter). Or how it would come about that James would be parted from it in the first place. In any case, it wasn’t a decision to be made over his head. Which was what you eventually replied with.

“No, no, of course. For if it comes up, which I’m certain it will at some point.”

“If I can help, I will.” You replied cautiously. If you could help your Jamie in any way you weren’t going to refuse.

“Good, good, that’s good. Oh, and another thing…”

“Yes, you prompted again, your voice straining further with lack of patience.

“You recently requested that we approach some South Korean doctor about sponsoring her research?” At this, you perked up.

“Yes, Doctor Helen Cho. I met her at a conference last year. Her presentation was impressive and she was gracious enough to indulge my curiosity afterwards. Her work doesn’t directly pertain to prosthetics, but I believe it’s quite cutting-edge technology that could work miracles in a number of different cases.”

“It says here she does synthetic tissue something or other?”

“It’s quite a bit more complex than that, Mr Stark. Too complex, in fact, to be discussed over the phone at this point, but I believe that Dr Cho is a visionary and I am convinced she has the brains to back it up. What she lacks are the means.”

“Yes, alright, send me a dossier so I’ll know what I’m talking about when I call the lady.”

“Call… you’re gonna call her? Personally?”

“Yup.”

“Mr Stark, I…”

“Right, whiz kid, back to your duties and don’t forget that dossier.”

“I won’t. Mr Stark, I…”

“And think about that arm for your boyfriend. Maybe make a few sketches.”

“He’s not my…” you started and didn’t get to finish as the line disconnected.

“Unbelievable.” You muttered at the phone.

“You alright?” Pam called through the slightly open door. “Who was that?”

“Our boss is a riddle wrapped in an enigma and filled with a conundrum.” You answered evasively.

***

“This looks good, but you look very bad, Sarge.” Skye commented carefully as he retrieved the tin from the oven, not even bothering with a glove. The comment was as blunt as it was true. As previously established, he had trouble sleeping (more so than usual), and his nerves had become increasingly more jittery to a point he couldn’t simply walk off anymore. So, still pursuing the quest to become a fully rounded human being with interests and hobbies again, and in order to have something to focus on other than the fact that he was what HYDRA had made him, James had taken inspiration from the media and ventured into bakery. Which was surprisingly difficult to do with the limited use of his broken limbs, but he made do, as he always did. So yes, this simple berry pie did look rather decent despite the somewhat wonky lattice work and he, not having slept more than three hours in as many days and with the sickly yellow remnants of bruising still under his skin, looked completely awful. And since this was known he didn’t deign to respond. Instead he lightly whacked the young woman’s hand with a spatula as it ventured dangerously close to the previously made brownies.

“Those still need to cool down.” he grunted, voice still somewhat nasal from the fractured nose. It had caused him to start snoring, too, though only very lightly. Still, it was enough to disturb what little sleep he found even further. He wasn’t a sound sleeper, lately. He wondered whether his sleep had always been this light.

“Sarge?” Skye’s voice broke through to him again, signaling that he must have been staring at nothing while his thoughts trailed off. It’s a side effect of the sleep deprivation. He looks at the young woman next to him, then at the fruits of his labor on the kitchen counter. He’d been at it since the early morning hours. Thankfully the kitchen is far enough from any of the living quarters for the noise to have disturbed anyone. He rolls his left shoulder. It has been tingly and itchy for the better part of the night (which is psychosomatic, he knows, he _knows_ ), and now it’s starting to feel a little bit sore from the strain of beating egg whites and the like. Supposedly when Dr Constantiniou recommended some light activity in place of physical therapy she hadn’t meant hours on end of it.

“Take a muffin.” James decreed graciously with a vague gesture towards the counter. Skye snatched three, one of each kind, with an impish grin and he’s having trouble keeping his eyes open, suddenly.

“I’m gonna…”

“Take a nap?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.” Skye grinned triumphantly around a mouthful of chocolate chip muffin. James put a _‘Do not touch >:(’_ sign on the pie and another that said _‘wait until cooled’_ on the brownie tin before slowly shuffling over to the couch in the next room.

“Hands off the brownies!” he threw over his shoulders at Skye, who was in the process of filling a plate with muffins, presumably to bring to Fitz and Simmons.

“I could wait until you’re asleep and you wouldn’t even know.” She retorted cheekily.

“I would know.” He shot back in a tone that brooked no argument and flopped down on the couch. He felt so heavy as if something stronger than gravity was pulling him down. Skye appeared at the foot of the couch, smiling down at him softly (still chewing, too).

“Want me to wake you at a specific time?”

“Four.” He mumbled while his eyes drooped shut and he finally found some of the repose that had escaped him throughout the previous nights.

“As you wish.” She threw a blanket over him with a theatrical flourish. “Sweet dreams, partner.”

 

He woke on his own just a quarter of an hour shy of four in the afternoon. An unopened water bottle had been kindly placed on the coffee table next to him. Gratefully, he took a few sips and stretched. His shoulder ached properly now, all dull pulsing at the seam of flesh and metal and the sharp pull of slicing further down, around where the damned star cattle-branded him. And suddenly lying down became too much again, too fraught with faceless recollections. James shot up with a gasp, gripping the arm that hurt where nerves or flesh to hurt no longer existed. He breathed through it, gripping the water bottle in the other hand to ground himself in the present reality. The plastic groaned as he put pressure on it with his fractured fingers, the thin layer of new skin stretching across his knuckles. If anything, it was enough to bring him back from the memory of past pains, of being strapped down and cut into…

Whiskey goes surprisingly well with baked goods. Of course it doesn’t do much to him (unless he downed the whole bottle in one go), but that’s not the point. So, whiskey and brownies, and a slice of berry pie that’s still warm in the center. Comfort food for the uncomfortable. He clutched his arm to his side as he ate miserably, only grunting in greeting when one by one Skye, Jemma and Fitz filed in, taking up the seats around him. It always came back to the arm, lately. He didn’t know how the inner workings of his scrambled brain came together in this way, but the diffuse memories of pain had cleared enough for him to have once again become aware of what had happened to him.

“You wanna talk about it?” one of the youngsters says after successfully hounding for a slice of pie and a small heap of brownies each, and strangely enough, he does.

There is a moment of serenity when you die. You know this is the end, and maybe it's because your brain is already shutting down but there is a moment when you're weightless and painless, like suspended in limbo. And as he lay there, shattered, in the snow, he had peace at last. It was tranquil in the purest sense. The pain or the cold didn't bother him then. They, like everything else, had faded into insignificance. He'd even enjoyed it, this state of equilibrium, in the way one enjoys the absence of noise after it has driven you crazy for what feels like ages, and waited for death.

But death hadn't come to claim him, and gradually the pain returned, and the fear, and the cold. Do you know what it's like to have all your bones shattered? Are you familiar with the sensation of freezing to death? It's unexpectedly scorching. There is a phenomenon called 'paradoxical undressing' (they probably knew this, they are very smart kids). It occurs during hypothermia, when the cold in your body is somehow transformed into its opposite and you feel like you're on fire even though you're freezing. He'd tried to take off his jacket at least, but found that he couldn't even move. So he'd been reduced to just lying there, burning and paralyzed, and praying for death to come quickly. There is a portion in scripture, used in requiems, _oh death, where is thy sting? Death, where is thy victory?_ 1 Corinthians 15:55. He'd heard the Brahms again, the few bars that had been playing when the news came about his father. It was stuck in his head now, the music tumultuous, defiant – or desperately yearning – Bucky Barnes had never been a particularly religious individual, his faith having been nominal at best, habitual at worst. As I lay there in the valley in the shadow of death. Literally. The sky had been so lovely though, off-white and clear save for a few fluffy snow clouds. Perfect Christmas weather. If he’d still been a boy and back at home they’d have built a small army of snowmen before the day was done. But he wasn’t a boy anymore, and not at home either, and it would take hours yet for someone to find him. He’d lain there, watching the sky darken and brighten again before someone must have found him. That part still escaped him.

“Wait, so you’re telling us not only did you somehow survive that fall, but you were conscious the whole time?” Skye looked a bit grey, her eyebrows knotted in a mix of sympathy and disbelief. Fitz stared into the middle distance thoughtfully, his nod almost imperceptible. Jemma had put down her food halfway through his tale, now looking half perturbed and half intrigued. James exhaled slowly against the thudding behind his temples, rubbing his palm against the metal plates of his arm as if it would actually do anything. There was an excess of nervous energy in him now, so he straightened and went to put the plates away quickly, setting aside the rest of the pie and brownies for the rest of the team, and one plate for the good doctor for fixing him up. Trip wandered in just then, looking exhausted but too wound up to find rest anytime soon. The two men exchanged a nod and Trip followed him back to the recreational area next door, settling in on Jemma’s unoccupied side. Skye nudged him lightly as he resumed fidgeting with his arm.

“There’s more, isn’t there?”

James sighed. He needed to talk. It was like an itch, a physical need. Only what would come out of his mouth next would be …unpleasant, to say the least. Could he put that burden on someone else in good conscience?

“Come on, then.”

About the arm then. The current one was the sixth and latest model, sleek, powerful, (largely) rust-free - a near perfect feat of engineering. The first arm had been a complete crying disaster. They'd attached it directly to the stump of his torn arm. To their credit, they had given him a decent dose of anesthetics before, but because of his enhanced metabolism the stuff had only made him woozy long enough for them to strap him down. By the time they were on him with their instruments his body had burned clean through the stuff and the remainder of the operation was spent fully conscious and aware, with a piece of wood between his teeth to muffle the screams. That first arm hadn't had nearly as much finesse, it's movement nowhere near the capacity of a healthy human limb and the nervous translation had just been awful. Really he'd been more effective without that dead weight attached to him. He guessed it might have been a prototype. To make matters worse the responsible scientists had slacked during the surgery and he'd developed gangrene and later blood poisoning. They'd taken it off eventually and chipped away at him some, removing the rotten tissue. The second arm hadn't been much better, nor the procedure of attaching it, but the connection to his nervous system had improved so that when he meant to curl his fingers it would work eight times out of ten, which wasn't all that bad for 1952. The problem was that because of the way it was attached to the stump of his arm, his body, even enhanced by the serum, wasn't equipped to handle the forces pulling at it when he used the arm. It went surprisingly well for the first few missions as the Winter Soldier, but eventually something went wrong, really badly horribly wrong, and he'd spent the subsequent time (Hours? Days? Weeks?) in a world of pain. When he finally came back to a state of being able to make sense of his surroundings, he'd found himself with the remainder of his left arm chopped away and a new metal replacement screwed in directly at the shoulder joint. That had been the third arm. It served him reasonably well for the next 20 or so years, when that, too, had gone south, his shoulder blade and collar bone being shattered in the process. But HYDRA did as they had always done, carved away at his body some more and soldered and re-built and attached the latest model. The man in charge by then hadn't had any regard for cosmetics and James owed him the scars even now still marring his skin where flesh met metal. They'd finally figured out how to properly relay the nerve endings, too. The fourth arm worked near flawlessly, and allowed him some degree of sensory sensation, pressure and temperature (some of nature's constraints aren't made to be lifted though; so texture would forever remain an impossibility). It was nowhere near what nature could do, of course, but it was surprisingly sufficient for missions. They'd grafted it so that the metal bit directly into his bones, or what remained of them. The chafing had only been a minor irritation. Subsequent upgrades improved upon the previous design and arm number six was reasonably useful, allowing for the full range of motion and a frankly surprising degree of feeling, so long as you didn't electrocute it or wedge a vibranium shield in between the plating. He'd gotten so used to it by now, really, naturally balancing out the added weight on his left side. All in all, he'd lived longer with the metal arm than the one of flesh and blood. Sometimes it still hurt, like right now, but that was nowhere near as bad as what he’d just described. James had closed his eyes halfway through. It allowed his brain to replay the gory memories with much more clarity, but at least he didn’t have to look at the stricken faces.

“Those monsters!” Jemma pressed out between clenched jaws, looking about ready to commit a murder. They all do, actually. Maybe he shouldn’t have unloaded his demons upon them. It was selfish and it’s not like he deserves… he’s so tired again, as if he hadn’t rested at all. If he doesn’t get up now, he’ll never make it back to his quarters.

“It’s done.” He grunted as he hoisted himself up from the oh-so inviting couch cushions. “No use crying about it now.”

They looked like they wanted to argue, so he quickly cut across them.

“What are those vaults for?” he asked, unclenching his stiff fingers from around the metal shoulder. The pain is duller now, just about bearable. “The ones down on level 6.”

The surprise about his non sequitur is evident. As is the pause before anyone answers.

“There’s nothing down there.” Skye replied, avoiding his gaze.

“That’s why I asked what they were for, not what was in there.” _Lying,_ his mind screams at him, _she’s lying_.

“Those are cells, for if we catch some high-ranking HYDRA …person.” Fitz stutters out quickly. Too quickly; the words halt and jumble, but James can still understand him. He’s not even sure why he asked. Maybe because he’s been down to vault D a couple more times and thought he heard the rustling again, maybe even a breath or so. Maybe because he just bared part of his soul and there are so many things he doesn’t know because no one will speak of them. He bids the congregation a curt goodbye and drags himself to his quarters.

 

The jig is up, now. There’s no time to lose to solve the mystery of Vault D.

 _There was a short straight flight of stairs leading down into a dark, oblong room bare except for a chair and some sort of control panel. He makes his way downwards swiftly. The chair faces a wall that is opaque and a milky off-white in color, whereas all the other walls are black. With his enhanced hearing he picks up on a slight rustling noise on the other side of the opaque wall._ A moment with the control panel and he has figured out how to work it and the opaque wall becomes transparent, revealing a sparse cell equipped with only a simple cot and a corner that is obviously intended to function as a bathroom. Propped up against the back wall sits a dark-haired man, unshaven and hollow-cheeked, his hands working absentmindedly at the hem of the light grey scrubs he's wearing. He blinks a few times, adjusting his eyes to the sudden light, dim though it is, and the new visitor. The man's eyes widen slightly as he takes in James' features, and he involuntarily draws up his knees in a futile protective reflex. The two men stare at each other a moment, trying to gauge the other's intentions. James doesn't drop his steely gaze until the man's eyes flicker and he blinks, then takes another moment to survey the room that clearly functions as some sort of holding cell, so at least he hadn’t been lied to about _that_. He knows full well that he's most likely not supposed to be here, wasn’t even supposed to know this place and this man exist, but doesn't care. He's had enough secrets kept from him to last him several lifetimes and more even that the withholding of this information the nature of the set-up doesn't sit well with him. He glances back at the man, who has picked himself up off the ground and stands at his full height, a good three inches taller than James.

"Who are you?" James asks, tilting his head slightly.

"My name is Grant Ward." the other answers stiffly, taking a tentative step forward into the dim light.

"And why are you here?" James presses on. The name rings a bell, or doesn't it? He isn't sure, like he can't be sure of most things. Steve's middle name is Grant; perhaps that is what set off the faint flicker of recognition. It can be that the name was mentioned in passing by the other agents, but never to him directly. In any case it doesn't do to reveal this weakness, so he keeps his features guarded, his face a blank mask.

"I'm sure you heard all about me upstairs." Ward says, his tone flat with a hint of defeat and self-loathing. It's a tone he knows intimately, but if this man is being kept down here it stands to reason that he did something that warrants his state of confinement.

"Might have. You know who I am." It's not a question, and Ward's voice is strained as he answers.

"The Winter Soldier."

"I prefer 'former Winter Soldier', but yes. You know what HYDRA did to me then, by now at any rate."

Ward nodded mutely, suddenly very glad for the barrier of his cell. Nevertheless fear compels the words to fall from his mouth. "Why are you here?" James considers this for a moment, but decides to let him hang for a moment longer.

"I wasn't always the Winter Soldier." he states, probing, not letting his unwavering gaze stray from Ward and the subtle twitch around his eyes. He takes a moment to answer, swallowing thickly before he does.

"I'm here because I was a HYDRA mole and betrayed my team, Sergeant Barnes." The manner in which he confesses his crime is straightforward and without an appeal for lenience, James has to hand him that. His thoughts briefly travel to Skye and the hard, haunted look she gets sometimes when she thinks no one will notice, and to Fitz and his shaking hands and frustrated grappling for words, and the pieces begin to slide into place. He senses a bigger picture here, and it's entangled with his own story, even if just along the edges. With a small humorless smirk, he settles himself into the chair and crosses his ankles in front of him before addressing Ward again.

"HYDRA took my history from me. Maybe I'm just here to collect what is owed. I want your history, and you will tell it to me. You will tell me your whole damn life story if necessary. I want to know how you ended up in the ranks of HYDRA, how you ended up betraying your team. You don't have to justify yourself to me - I just want a truthful account. What is owed - no more." Ward's shoulders sag as he resigns himself and resumes his spot on the floor.

"Where do you want me to start?" he asks wearily, a man used to accepting his fate, who has learnt not to fight down to teeth and nails.

"The beginning is usually a good place." James suggests, folding his hands across his stomach. And Ward begins, leaves out no detail - not that James could tell if he did - covering his whole life story from the torments his parents and brother inflicted on him and his younger siblings, to his time under John Garrett, to how he wormed his way into Coulson's team. He gets back on his feet during the last part of his tale, pacing in his cell as he recounts his eventual betrayal.

"...and then I pressed the button and threw FitzSimmons into the ocean. I tried to make use of what wriggle room I had, to give them at least a fighting chance. I tried to... I... I thought it would float." Ward's voice falters, and his shoulders sag just a fraction, but it's enough to notice. James' mouth curves into a humorless smile.

"Didn't try hard enough." He assesses, rather harshly. Doesn't matter, he's not here to provide comfort for this man. Ward nods mutely, accepting the verdict without even a hint of struggle.

"I was weak - too weak."

"Given the chance, would you choose differently now?" Ward doesn't even hesitate, giving a firm 'yes' and meeting James' eyes steadily for the first time since he started his story, like he wants the other man to truly appreciate that he is being absolutely, completely, 100% sincere. James nods sagely, having expected this answer because, truthfully, how could it not be that, informed by single confinement and the transformative power of hindsight. He gets up in one fluid motion and steps closer.

"Would you do it because you now know your wrongs or because you know the consequences and losses of your choice?" he asks pensively, letting his metal fingers skim along the surface of the invisible force field that is the barrier between Ward's cell and the world outside it. Ward takes a miniscule step backwards, briefly wondering of the metal arm enables the former assassin to break through the barrier and snap his neck. Reason tells him the answer is most likely no, but the hairs on the back of his neck still stand up.

"There's a difference between the two, you know. You might want to think about that. If there's one thing you can do here undisturbed and all day long it's thinking, isn't it." Ward nods again, exhaling slowly when James drops his hand and steps back, tilting his head slightly to peer at the man who is at once decades younger and a few years older than him.

"I'm not here to kill you, Agent Ward." he says calmly, fixing him in his unyielding gaze, "Beside the fact that it's not my call to make I think it's punishment enough for you to have to live with what you did."

He turns on his heel and leaves the vault without another word, but his mind is made up.

 

James stood leaning against the wall right next to Coulson's office as the middle-aged man approached. He'd been there for a while now, not having gone back to his quarters after his encounter with Ward. And he cuts right to the chase, in no mood to dance around the topic or ease into the conversation with small talk.

"What a nice cell you've given him," he all but snarls, his voice dripping with irony and venom, "A lot more spacious than where I was kept, but then of course I was frozen for most of the time."

Coulson stops dead in his tracks a few feet from his office door, quirking an eyebrow. "Good morning to you as well, Sergeant." he says, trying to sound casual, "Why don't we discuss this in my office?"

"Why?" James challenges, not bothering to keep his voice down, "Your team all know you keep people locked up the basement, don't they? It's very Mr Rochester, I'll give you that."

Coulson's composure wavers, the corners of his mouth turning downwards into an unwilling frown as he narrows his eyes at James, who remains summarily unimpressed.

"So this is your _‘asset’_ then." he presses on, reigning in the rage that boils just underneath the surface, "You know, I was just the _‘asset’_ for longer than you've been alive." James pauses to swallow the bitter taste that has risen up at the back of his throat. His rage is an ugly, snarling thing out for blood, and yet it pales though against the realization that the differences between SHIELD and HYDRA are more miniscule than he had so foolishly hoped and for a moment all he wants is to run and curl up in bed with you in your cozy apartment and leave this corrupt world of secrets spies behind for good. But he holds Coulson's gaze, firm and unblinking, putting the challenge out there for the agent.  "I'm not denying he deserves punishment, all I'm saying is that you're supposed to be better than them."

“Are you quite finished, Sergeant?” Coulson asks humorlessly, holding the door open. James stomps towards the smaller man, almost shoving him aside as he makes his way inside the office where he will proceed to yell for the next 42 minutes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Looking forward to your comments^^


	35. Soldier Spy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello sweet readers I have returned^^  
> real life has kept me busy and rather stressed, but I managed to finally finish this chapter today. yay me.

_we should be kind, we should_   
_take warning, we should forgive each other_

_Instead we are opposite, we_   
_touch as though attacking,_

_the gifts we bring_   
_even in good faith maybe_   
_warp in our hands to_   
_implements, to manoeuvres_

_They Are Hostile Nations, Margaret Atwood_

 

* * *

 

“Are you quite done?” Coulson asked after James ended his tirade. He fixed the other man in a venomous glare.

“Am I quite done?” he imitated the question mockingly, “I can assure you, _acting director_ Coulson, that I am _beyond_ done.” James sneered, ripping the lanyard from around his neck and throwing it down on the desk between them. He didn’t even care how petulant a gesture that may be; he was livid. He had trusted them, he had…

“You know, the reason I am now _acting director_ is because _you_ shot my boss.” Coulson replied flatly and dropped his gaze to the lanyard. James felt himself go cold, like a bucket of ice water had been dumped over his raging emotions. He was still seething, it just was less like a raging bushfire and more of…something else. He felt less like yelling and more like snapping someone’s neck.

“Oh, is that how it is.” He stated, voice just as flat. There was a thin stripe burning at the back of his neck, where he’d split the lanyard’s ribbon while pulling it off. A look crossed Coulson’s face that might have been regret. “Sergeant…”

James turned, pushing towards the door.

“No, thank you for so helpfully reminding me of my place. I had almost forgotten that I have no right to berate you for locking people up in your basement when I am the one who killed people uncritically. How …well, I’m sure it is _something_ of me.”

Coulson sighed long-sufferingly, but made no attempt to dissuade him from leaving which was fortunate since James was still trying to reign in his neck-snapping sentiments.

Apparently the youngsters had no regard for this imminent danger as Skye place herself squarely in his way as soon as he exited Coulson’s office, Fitz and Simmons some way behind her.

“He’s playing you.” She started, “Ward is playing you. It’s what he does. You can’t-“

“And you have been doing what, exactly?” James shot back so sharply a collective flinch went through the three. Skye stood her ground though.

“You can’t trust a word out of Ward’s damn lying, treacherous mouth.”

“Let’s not do this now.” Or ever. He was so weary. His head pulsed and his heart thumped in a way that even the bottle of pills Dr Constantiniou had prescribed him wouldn’t be able to mend.

“No!” Skye interjected passionately. “Ward has nothing to do with you. He made his choice.” She paused a moment, throwing a glance over at a very quiet Fitz and Simmons; or quiet apart from the very agitated conversation the two were holding with their eyes anyway. “It’s not your job to redeem him.” she paused again, giving him a chance to reply. He couldn’t for the life of him come up with anything to say, so he stayed silent, a looming specter over the smaller woman. Skye sighed.

“ _He_ has _nothing_ to do with you.” She reiterated, undeterred.

“Why…”

“Because you are a good person…” Simmons started, Skye taking over by blurting out:

“Even if you’re being kind of a jerk right now, and he –“

“He is a monster.” Fitz concluded, solemn and unhalting.

“How is it that you seem so sure of that?” James felt compelled to ask, fixing each of the three young agents in a heavy gaze, ending on Skye who had not backed down from him even half an inch. Which was both brave and reckless and exactly what Steve would have done.

“You’re …you’re Bucky Barnes.” She sounded almost helpless as she said it, like her faith in the truth of the statement had been fundamentally shaken. James gave her a long, weary look.

“Bucky Barnes is dead, kid. He’s been dead for seventy damn years.” _And all he got was an empty grave, memorials on walls and in museums. And this is all that’s left. A murdering puppet playing at being human._ _There’s a reason legends are better left dead._

He sidestepped them and stalked down the hall towards the living quarters with no plan other than to get out of the sight of each and any other human being for the immediate future.

Skye, and to an only slightly lesser extent Jemma, followed on his heels with barely any delay, all but dragging poor Fitz along. Yet they had trouble to match his angry stride.

“Look, I understand you’re upset-“ Skye panted, reaching for his arm and only missing because he pulled it out of reach reflexively. He snorted, not slowing. These hallways were long.

“We’re all upset. I think it would be best if we all tried to calm down and talk this out.” Simmons tried to mediate, in response to which Fitz snorted, although much more softly.

“Thanks, but I think I’ll stay upset for a while. I find it helps me focus.” James bit out scathingly, breaking his stride for only a beat and taking entirely too much pleasure in seeing the others stumble into each other. Part of him wanted to go on yelling, but he seemed to have expended all his words with Coulson. So instead he swallowed hard and kept on walking; _fleeing_ really. Sometimes it was better for everyone involved to remove yourself from a situation.

“If you knew what he did to us you wouldn’t judge us so harshly now.” Skye argued, skidding a few inches after jumping in front of him, forcing him to stop in his tracks or barrel into her. He had half a mind to do the latter, but something stopped him. The cold flared up, his blood still simmering just below boiling point.

“No, you’re right. I don’t know.” The words came out nonchalantly, but he was still seething on the inside. The problem was: so was she. Skye had planted her feet wide and her hands on her hips. Her lip quivered angrily and he knew right then that she wouldn’t back down. So he continued, voice flat and almost casual except for a sharply withering edge.

“I don’t know anything because none of you fucking talk about it!”

“It’s not-“ Jemma tried to protest, but James cut across her harshly.

“You all looked me in the eyes and fucking _lied_ to me all these weeks!”

“We almost died!” Fitz interjected hotly, quickly falling silent again as if his own outburst had shocked him into it.

“So did I!” James snarled, crossing his arms in front of his chest and curling his fingers into fists and the fabric of his shirt.

“Yeah, and it took you like half a year to talk about that.” Skye commented, and he was _this_ close to seeing red.

“How dare you compare-“

“Oh what, because no one is as damaged and fucked up as poor old Bucky Barnes? You’re not the sole subscriber to Suffering Weekly!”

He huffed because that seemed like a natural response and Skye softened by a fraction.

“Look, he’s down there because it’s necessary. He’s dangerous and it’s our responsibility to keep him from hurting more people.”

To be the shield between the innocent and those who would harm them. He understood the implication easily enough, though it irked him somewhat that he ought to be swayed by mention of his own legacy (no, Bucky Barnes’ legacy, and even more so that of Peggy Carter and Steve Rogers, and many more worthy than him, then or now). It irked him even more since he knew how few were truly innocent, and also how a noble goal might still require mean methods. You don’t beat bad people by nicely asking them to stop, unfortunately. He’d learnt that early on, and applied it voluntarily during the war. The trouble with drawing lines in the sand was that sand was so easily washed away, leaving you to redraw the line or stop bothering to. Nothing was ever easy, wasn’t that the crux of the matter?

In any case, the adrenaline high he had been riding was cresting still, but only just, leaving him to crash in the very near future. In any case, they weren’t going to resolve this now, and it was useless trying to when the lot of them were so wound up. In any case he didn’t want to go on arguing, and yelling, and fighting, ending up saying things he might truly regret.

“It’s a damn slippery slope.” He replied flatly, unclenching one hand to scrub over his face. There was a burning building up behind his eyes – not pain as such, more like the synapses in his brain going off like a damn firework. He felt like his mind was overloading with thoughts.  Sensing that he wasn’t going to get through Skye, and to lessening degree, Simmons, he turned on his heel to take another way to his quarters, only to come almost toe to toe with Agent May. She must have followed the sounds of arguing, possibly after a short discussion with Coulson in his office. Had James been less drained he might have said something venomous. As it was, he just glared. Agent May was, perhaps predictably, unimpressed, but did not seem quite as impenetrable as usual.

“You don’t look that well.” Agent May observed after a moment of mutual glowering, and while this was probably not incorrect it was not at all what he had expected to hear. His heart thumped erratically. He swayed and there was a mighty rushing in his ears a moment, so much so that he couldn’t really understand May’s next words which were directed at the younger agents behind him. He groaned, steadying himself on the wall with one hand as his vision began to swim. Immensely irritated, he found that he would maybe like to yell some more after all, now that he found himself unable to. His knees buckled from under him as black spots started to appear in his field of vision. He vaguely heard a female voice saying something about hypotension, which registered as weird in regards to what Dr Constantiniou had been prescribing him pills for-

It could not have been more than a few seconds that he blacked out, certainly less than a minute. He felt the cool brickwork of the walls against his back and the fussing of small hands, which he swatted at reflexively.

“Easy Sarge, easy.” A female voice implored him urgently, and Simmons’ worried face came into view, Skye beside her and Agent May close behind.

“Was that another trigger?”

“I don’t think so,” Simmons answered uncertainly, grasping his right wrist while she looked down at her watch in deep concentration. If she was trying to discern his blood pressure then good luck; from the erratic thumping in his chest that seemed to be all over the place. “Just a spot of syncope, I think. Probably due to a number of factors interacting unfavourably.” Simmons concluded just as James worked up enough focus to yank his arm out of her grasp. Sucking in a harsh breath, he struggled to his feet and continued glaring. Unfortunately the world was still swaying slightly and he found himself leaning heavily onto the wall again, which had far from the intended effect. Then again he wasn’t really in any shape to go on yelling, instead finding himself panting harshly and dizzy.

“I think it might be best if you go lay down a while, Sergeant Barnes.” Agent May suggested sensibly, which earned her an unwilling growl. She took it graciously, then her attention shifted to the hallway behind him.

“Wouldn’t you agree, Miranda?”

Dr Constantiniou came into view, thoughtfully giving him a wide berth so she could come at him fully visible instead of from behind or the side. Not that he was in a mind to appreciate such gestures at the moment. He glared, pressing one hand to his chest as if to force his heartbeat to return to a normal rhythm. Dr Constantiniou looked worried.

“It might be in part due to the medication I prescribed you. I would need to do some tests to be sure…”

“No tests!” he snarled, having found some of his voice again. He would be damned if he let any of them near him now.

“I suppose you will be equally as reluctant to come back to the infirmary with me, then?” Dr Constantiniou said in a tone that was both sad and resigned. For a split second he thought of what a terrible, obstinate patient Steve had been and felt a little bit bad. It didn’t stick, though.

“Damn right.” He spat, pushing away from the wall and making a concerted effort to stand up straight. The world was still spinning a bit around the edges, but he managed alright.

“Will you at least go get some rest?” Skye pleaded, looking so upset that for a moment he would have promised her anything. Remembering that he was still mad, he squashed the sentiment and nodded curtly.

“Okay.” She said softly, looking like she wanted to say more, but wisely deciding against it. Agent May seemed to have no such qualms as she quickly strode over and up beside him where he was rather preoccupied in making his feet move towards his quarters.

“One more thing.”

He groaned, stubbornly pushing forward. Whatever it was the senior agent wanted, he sincerely hoped it wouldn’t last the whole way. He didn’t need to be walked to his room like a disobedient child.

“Please don’t do anything stupid and reckless now.”

He spared her a sidelong glance and a humorless grin.

“The walls are safe from me, Agent May. Good day.”

 

He did indeed rest, if you could call sitting on the mattress of his bed and flipping through the file about Nameless Soldier Number 17 resting, that is. He did rest more properly, too, during the day, dozing mostly though he did manage one half-hour power nap around midday. If anything it helped his body feel less fatigued, even if his mind was buzzing too much to allow for any actual respite.

So, for focus, he gets up, determined to completely ignore anyone who might cross his path. No one does, and he arrives at the baths a few minutes later, promptly busying himself with setting up his shaving equipment. One of the safe houses they’d stayed at during the last several weeks, during the missions together, had had a lone abandoned straight razor that no one seemed to have any vested interest in, so he’d pocketed it. It’s one of the things he’s very, very sure he remembers from before. His dad had one just like it, with a smooth handle and a gleaming blade, and he’d shown his son how to use it that one summer. It must have been ’32 or ’33; that year James had grown almost a foot while his voice dropped and somehow by the end of it all that stubborn chubby-cheeked baby fat had finally evaporated and given way to the daily bristle.

“It’s time, son.” George Barnes had announced ominously, attempting to exchange a conspirational glance with his wife, who was demonstratively engrossed in her newspaper, and James had looked up at his father in alarm, the impending food fight between the babies which he’d been trying to prevent by means of stern older brother looks utterly forgotten.

“Time for what, Pa?”

George Barnes made a show of gazing out of the kitchen window into the lazy Sunday morning slowly unfolding outside.

“I’ve been waiting for this since the day you were born, my boy.” He said wistfully, with a tone of pride before fixing his increasingly confused son with a warm paternal look.

“It’s time I taught you how to shave.”

“I wanna learn, too! Pa! Papa!” Five-year-old Jules demanded immediately, to little more than the statement that it would be his turn in approximately ten years. He’d pouted the rest of the day.

“See that he doesn’t cut his own throat by accident.” Was all that his mother had had to say on the matter, and James had followed his father to the bathroom with a feeling in the pit of his stomach that was part queasy and part giddy.

He hadn’t cut his throat, only nicked it a little bit. Also he’d made the mistake of accidentally swallowing a bit of shaving cream. Other than that, he’d managed alright. Soon enough, shaving became an irreplaceable part of his morning routine, a sort of meditation that helped him prepare for the day ahead. Upon his deployment to Europe, James hadn’t taken a whole lot of personal items with him: two books, a handful of photos, knick-knack that had no other value than that of sentiment, and his father’s razor. Last he knew, it had been in his pack. He wondered where it had ended up-  

Gripping the smooth handle in his right, he tilted his head back to get at the sensitive skin under his jaw, which was always a finicky sort of deal he’d found, especially with only one hand.

_“Are you sure you don’t need any help with that?” a voice called from his side, somewhat faded as befitting of an old memory. From the corner of his eye he could see the shorter, wiry frame of a young man in an incomplete Red Army uniform, the jacket thrown over a chair behind them with the hat resting on top of it. James grinned at him through the mirror._

_“Thanks, but I must …uh, needed do that?” he chanced in cringe-inducing Russian._

_“Need to do this. Or have to do this.” The smaller man corrected lightly, raising his own blade back to his face._

_“Yes. I need to do this By myself. Thank you, Saitchik.”_

“Saitchik…” James murmured, now firmly back at the Playground and in 2014. “Huh.”

Turning the mental images over in his head, he finished shaving. When he was done, James wiped away the last remnants of shaving cream, went back to his quarters and started packing.

* * *

 

Skye awoke the next morning, early and far from rested. In fact she had been tossing and turning all night. Groggily she sat up and gathered what she needed for a shower. Their little rooms were equipped with small bathrooms each, but of you wanted to do more than splash your face or brush your teeth, you’d have to use the larger facilities, which had shower stalls and locker rooms, much like a gym. Trotting by the Sarge’s door, she paused a moment, contemplating briefly whether or not he might have calmed down enough by now. Deciding that even if he was, she wasn’t awake enough for another confrontation yet she shuffled along. Once showered she made her way back, quickly throwing her towel over the back of a chair to dry and marching back up to Barnes’ door. They would resolve this. Now. Well, maybe they wouldn’t exactly resolve it, but she was set on salvaging their relationship and in her opinion that was something that really couldn’t wait. It was still early, but not painfully so. The sun had already risen; the earliest risers were already moving about in the kitchen making themselves breakfast. Taking a deep preparatory breath, she raised her hand and knocked on the door.

Half a minute passed without any discernible reaction. She tried again, rapping her knuckles on the door more sharply. It stung a bit. Again nothing. She put her ear to the wood, listening for any signs of life on the other side. He was very quiet when he wanted to be, she reasoned when she could not hear a thing. In any case, sulking was not a particularly sound-intensive activity. Of course, he could just be trying to get her to leave by way of ignoring her. Not that this would work; she was determined.

“Sarge!” she called out, knocking again, “Sarge! I just wanna talk, okay? Can we please talk? James?”

There was no answer, not even a petulant demand to get lost. First it annoyed her, then worry started to creep in. He’d promised May, but there really was no telling …even if he hadn’t hurt himself in any way, his heart might have given him trouble. The doctor had been rather concerned the previous day.

“Sarge? I’m counting to ten now. If you haven’t opened this door by the time I’m done I’m going to assume I need to come in, and then I’m coming in. One…”

Still there was not even a peep from inside the room, but she counted down all the way before gripping the handle.

“I’ve warned you, partner.” She muttered and turned the handle, surprised to find that the door hadn’t been locked. It swung open slowly, revealing the inside of the sparse quarters. Which were empty. Skye stepped inside, looking behind the door, then inside the small bathroom. There weren’t many other spots where a man his size could hide so she checked those out, too. He wasn’t there. A slight sense of panic began to rise up her throat. The bag – your old bag – was missing also along with what little James had brought with him in terms of personal belongings. Merely the finished copy of _The Count of Monte Christo_ was still lying on the nightstand.

“What the shit, Sarge.” She muttered under her breath, glaring into the room like he might materialize again all of a sudden. “Please don’t do this …have done this …whatever …Goddammit!”

There were a whole lot of people to inform about this now and she did not look forward to that.

* * *

 

At approximately the same time the team reconvened in Coulson’s office after a thorough search of the premises to discuss the hows and whos of informing Captain Rogers that they’d lost his best friend, James stowed away inside a cargo flight headed to Frankfurt am Main, Germany. Navigating his way out of the massive airhub, he continued to the northward bound Autobahn where he then hitched a ride towards Berlin with a cheerful Polish truck driver who was completely unashamed about singing along to almost every song on the radio. Unfortunately the cheery Pole couldn’t take him all the way and passed him off to a sullen Bulgarian, who in turn referred him to a very bored-looking Romanian. By the time the sun started setting, he’d made it into the city, found one of the few public pay phones still in use in this age of mobile communication and left Skye a voice mail that said not to come looking for him. And, if at all possible, not to tell anyone outside of the base that he had gone, unless he wasn’t back by the end of the month. By that point he supposed he’d either found what he was looking for or run into a situation he couldn’t get out of by himself. First though, he hefted his bag and trekked to the nearest public library. He had a few things to look up. Having squeezed all the data he could out of Yellow Pages, old magazine issues and the world wide web, he continued on his way, until he was once again stood before the door of Dr Loewe and her neighbor with the familiar name. He briefly debated ringing the young German archaeologist’s doorbell, but decided against it since he didn’t have a convincing story to tell for why he was there.

Gathering all his wits and guts about him, he raised his hand and knocked on the door with the name tag _‘Novakov’_. For a while nothing happened, and he almost considered turning back, but then the quick thud of steps could be heard approaching and the door was yanked open to reveal a slightly harried-looking, middle aged woman. She was rather on the short side with a light build and long brown hair with grey starting to streak through.

“Ja bitte?” she demanded impatiently, pushing her wire-framed glasses up her nose.

“Dok… Sorry, I’m looking for a Doctor Novakov.” He responded. In Russian, which hadn’t been the plan but seemed to give the woman enough pause not to slam the door in his face.

“That’s me. What is it?” she responded, picking up the language change seamlessly.

“Um, no, sorry, I mean Doctor Nikolai Novakov. He must be over ninety. I was told he lived here.”

“That’s my father. He hasn’t lived here since he retired. Who are you? A former student? A journalist? Secret Services?” the last one had clearly been meant at least half as a joke, but James shifted nervously nonetheless.

“No, ma’am, none of that. I just …used to know him, a long time ago.” Something compelled him to go on. “From the army. During the war.”

The woman had prepared herself for a dismissive snort that now lodged in her throat. She peered at him again, more intently this time, then did a double take and slammed the door shut. James winced. That could have gone better. Then again, he’d barely had a plan to begin with. He wasn’t even sure what he hoped to find. It was a miracle the man he sought was still alive, being well into his mid-nineties with all the actual physical decay to go with it.

A somewhat longer moment later the door was ripped open again, making him wince again as the light from inside the apartment hit his eyes. The woman was holding a smallish rectangular piece of paper in her hand, conscientiously checking it against his face. It made him rather aware of the fact that his hair had grown out a couple of inches and that he hadn’t shaved or showered since leaving the base. That had, all in all, been less than 48 hours ago, but traversing half the globe in ways that are meant for non-sentient cargo will have an effect.

“Where did you say you knew my father from?” the woman asked weakly.

“From the war.” James replied cautiously. According to all the information he’d found online about Dr Nikolai Novakov, he’d only ever served in the one war. The woman nodded absently.

“Sorry, what did you say your name was again?”

“I am Seventeen.”

She paled a bit, but nodded again, more to herself. She threw another glance at the thing in her hand, a photo by the looks of it. The woman then stepped aside and waved him through, closing the door behind the two of them.

“I thought he made you up; a crazy war story to entertain his kids. My brother and I even tried to investigate when we were older …not much came of that. My father would tell us the most fantastical bedtime stories, you know? All from the top of his head.” Her gaze dropped to his side, eyeing the gloved hand that held his bag. “Um, what’s with the arm, if you don’t mind me asking? Don’t tell me whatever helped you to look thirty over seven decades also helped you grow a new arm!”

He almost laughed, then, whether at the clearly overwhelmed woman in front of him or the general succession of circumstances that had led him to stand awkwardly in her hallway at this precise moment he didn’t care to investigate. So he merely dropped the bag and pulled off his glove. “Prosthetic.”

Her eyes went a bit wide at the gleaming metal finish.

“Fancy.”

“You have no idea…”

“Tatiana.”

“You have no idea, Tatiana Nikolaevna.”

She gazed at the photo in her hand again, smiling a little. She seemed to get over the initial shock of having strange men knock on her door bearing remnants mysterious pasts with enviable grace.

“You name isn’t really Seventeen, is it?”

“No, but I’m afraid there is much I don’t remember about the last few years.”

“But you remember by father and would like to talk to him in the hope that he might be able to help you piece a few things back together.” She was a sharp one. He appreciated that.

“Yes.”

“Well, you’re in luck because I’m actually in the process of visiting him today. I meant to be off hours ago but a pet emergency needed taking care of. If you carry my bags with your fancy arm I’ll let you tag along. Deal?”

Smirking, James made a show of flexing the metal fingers. “Direct me to your luggage, Tatiana Nikolaevna.”

Another three hours on the Autobahn and James was caught halfway between the giddy exhilaration of speed and never wanting to travel extended distances by car ever again. Tatiana had coaxed a bit more of his story out of him, though it was mostly regarding what connected him with her father, which there wasn’t a lot that he knew so there wasn’t much that he could reveal. In turn she told him about the family, how her father had moved into the country to marry her mother and become a well-respected trauma surgeon, about her siblings, of which there were four and that she was the youngest, and the story their father used to tell them about the soldier without a name. They drove steadily northward until reaching the Baltic Sea, bypassing Rostock and driving on to a sweet little village called Häschendorf. By now it was dark outside, the night pitch black save for the lights of cars and buildings. Tatiana pulled up to a little one-story house with a lovely garden that looked like the last place James would ever have thought to look, or in fact should be at. There was a lovely garden, too. In the distance, one could even hear the even sound of the sea. While he busied himself with getting the bags, Tatiana had already walked up to the door and rung the bell. Out of instinct, James stayed hidden in the shadows while someone shuffled inside the house and then cracked open the door. Seeing who was on the other side, a very slim old man with a cane threw open the door and hugged Tatiana tightly.  

“Tanechka! I was starting to think you had forgotten your old father.”

“Papa, I called twice to say that I would be late.” She scolded mildly, disentangling herself from her father. “Papa, remember how you used to tell us the story of your friend who lost his arm and memory? And we never really believed you?” She handed him the old photograph and waved James over from the car. He approached slowly with the luggage while Novakov senior studied the picture thoughtfully, looking up when he sensed another person approaching.

“Hello, Saitchik.” James said, his voice sounding oddly rough and choked. The old man froze a moment before breaking out into a bright if slightly teary grin. After over seventy years, Novakov could finally stop searching.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sooo... opinions? thoughts? questions? guesses? fav bits and pieces?
> 
> notes:  
> Saitchik (за́йчик for those of you who can read cyrillic) - bunny, rabbit  
> Häschendorf - an actual place just east of Rostock, translates to 'bunny village'. chosen because I am a giant dork.


	36. Hic sunt dracones

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hands up who missed me?  
> sorry for the wait, but I have been consumed with a crippling dread of my personal future and it resulted in somewhat of a writer's block  
> this notwithstanding, everything somehow turned out to be twice as long as I orginally planned it to be *shrug emoji*  
> warnings: extensive flashbacks, war, loss of limb, probably far too many new minor characters, humor that is morbid to dark

_О, старый мир! Пока ты не погиб,_

_Пока томишься мукой сладкой,_

_Остановись, премудрый, как Эдип,_

_Пред Сфинксом с древнею загадкой!_

_…_

_Мы любим плоть – и вкус ее, и цвет,_

_И душный, смертный плоти запах…_

_Виновны ль мы, коль хрустнет ваш скелет_

_В тяжелых, нежных наших лапах?_

_***_

_O, old world! While you still survive,_

_While you still suffer your sweet torture,_

_Come to a halt, sage as Oedipus,_

_Before the ancient riddle of the Sphinx!.._

_…_

_We love the flesh – its flavor and its color,_

_And the stifling, mortal scent of flesh…_

_Is it our fault if your skeleton cracks_

_In our heavy, tender paws?_

_/// /// ///_

_-Aleksandr Blok – Scythians/Скифы_

* * *

 

**_December 1944, somewhere on the Eastern Front_ **

 

Private Alyosha Semyonovich Raskovsky was resolved that he hated three things more than any other: war, winter, and scouting. The one good thing about winter was Christmas, and with the new year only days off Christmas was approaching fast. Then again, with the war and the hardships it brought, Christmas didn’t feel much like Christmas anymore. Mountains were – well, he could deal with mountains, he just didn’t prefer them. The eastern parts of the Alps were scenic, even, and though he missed the steppes of his Central Asian home, Private Alyosha could at least appreciate the view. The problem was that he had been appreciating the view for weeks now, and the further his unit moved west, the higher the mountains became.

And it was oh so cold. Winters in the steppes were cold, too. That didn’t mean he liked it. But, if he opened his mouth to complain one more time their sergeant would stuff that same mouth with his own socks, which he had been wearing for most of that year now, and Yevgeniy Igorovich Petrov was not a man to threaten these kinds of things lightly. And so Private Alyosha Semyonovich trudged wearily ahead through the snow, scowling at the endless white that was only marred by the dark grey slivers of rock rising up on either side of them. Alyosha had the keenest eyes, which was why he led the single file of men on the lookout for enemy soldiers. There were none, unless they were hiding in the crevices of the mountainside like spirits or trolls or whatever kinds of creatures lived hereabouts. His Babushka would know; she knew all about fairies and ghosts and goblins and creatures of that ilk.

“Try not to fall asleep up there.” Stas grumbled from behind him, voice muffled by the scarf wound around his face. Alyosha scoffed at the other Private, turning slightly to shoot him a glare. He sidestepped a little outcropping of rock while still turned and stumbled, ending up sprawled on the ground, sinking into the thick snow.

“Hrrmphh.” Alyosha said eloquently around a mouthful of that same snow.

“Is that an arm???” Stas exclaimed behind him, sounding very alarmed and no doubt looking vaguely green. Alyosha writhed a bit, struggling to turn around and sit up. The other men of their little scouting party, four altogether, were huddled around a spot by his boots, too immersed in staring at the supposed arm to lend him a hand.

“Christ, Kolya, don’t touch it! Oh good Lord-“ that was the sergeant, whisper-yelling at their medic who seemed to have no inhibitions around anything even remotely medical. Other than that troubling feature, Alyosha knew him to be a good man. Flopping helplessly a few more times, he finally managed to turn around and get a look at his comrades. Stas and the Sergeant both looked green and pale, leaning as far away as possible, while Kolya was indeed hunched over a spot by Alyosha’s feet. The snow there and on the rock face next to the site were stained with trickles of blood, and Alyosha wondered how he could have missed that detail before. Cautiously, he struggled to his knees, hindered by his thick coat and the rifle hanging off his shoulder, but eventually he managed it.

“Thanks for nothing…” he grumbled, pulling himself closer on his hands and knees so as not to risk falling again, because there was indeed a human arm lying in the snow. The hand was almost as blue as the remnants of a sleeve it peeked out of, the fingers curled inwards slightly. Blood stained the dark blue of the sleeve, which was ripped and even singed in places. Alyosha grimaced at the morbid sight, glad he was more or less sitting.

“This was ripped off with considerable force.” Kolya concluded, assessing the severed limb with that distressing calm he had.  Stas had taken a few steps back; Alyosha could hear him dry-heaving a little distance off. The sergeant was mumbling a prayer under his breath. Kolya picked up the arm with ease, which seemed wrong to Alyosha. He felt like it should be harder, heavier, more difficult. In any case, he knew he would never forget the sight of his friend turning over a mysterious severed arm in his hands while standing in the almost knee deep winter snows of the Eastern Alps.

“This looks fresh,” Kolya assessed further, gripping the arm by the elbow and tugging at the sleeve’s frayed edges, “There are no bite marks or anything. The man this belongs to can’t be far.”

Stas groaned and scooped up some snow, rubbing it on his face before turning away again. The sergeant looked distinctly perturbed by the prospect of having to search for a dismembered corpse. Alyosha exchanged a look with Kolya, nodding slowly.

“If it was you, you’d want your body to be buried properly. And you’d want your family to know what happened to you.” He said quietly. Their sergeant sighed, eyes flicking over Kolya, who’d hefted the lone arm under his own, looking like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.

“Fine, fine. Let’s go find that poor bastard.”

 

Stas was, of course, the first to happen upon the ‘poor bastard’, but at least this time no one stumbled across any part of him. Also, the rest of him was, blessedly, still in one piece, albeit a rather banged up one. Kolya hobbled up close, fitting the arm to the stump on the man’s left and declaring it to fit somewhat too gleefully. He did have a certain macabre streak.

“I’m gonna be sick.” Stas groaned, averting his eyes from the bloodied corpse. The sergeant stood impassively, surveying the scene warily as Kolya dropped to his knees, handing Alyosha the arm before setting to examine the man. From what Alyosha could tell, he was still young, not much older than himself. He wasn’t wearing a uniform, but the outfit consisting of boots, dark pants and a dark blue jacket still looked distinctly military. There was a puddle of blood by his head, so much that it stained the snow a dark red, forming a stark contrast to his sallow face and slightly parted blue lips. Another, smaller and paler stain accompanied the remains of the poor devil’s maimed arm.

“No tags.” Kolya mumbled the findings of his examination, “Skull’s broken.”

“A partisan maybe?” the sergeant asked, looking around the narrow valley as if it might give them an answer to this mystery. Stas had apparently mustered enough nerves to step close again, hovering behind where Alyosha had crouched next to Kolya.

“Where on earth did he come from?” he asked no one in particular. Kolya just shrugged, starting to unbutton the man’s jacket to continue his examination.

“From the injuries I’d say he fell.”

“What, from up there?” Stas questioned, looking up at the steep rock face dubiously.

“There aren’t any traces here except ours,” Alyosha supplied helpfully, “And the weather’s been clear these past few days.”

“There are train tracks up on that mountain.” The sergeant added thoughtfully. The men hummed in agreement, and Kolya was still poking around the poor devil’s shattered bones. When he pressed down lightly just underneath the collarbone, a small trickle of fresh red blood was pushed out the corner of the dead man’s mouth, slowly sliding down his cheek and jaw.

“Is this normal?” The sergeant asked, disconcerted.

“No.” Said Kolya, frowning.

“Urrgh.” Said the dead man. Stas screamed. And then the man’s eyes flew open, icy blue and wide and uncomprehending, darting between them wildly, and Alyosha fell backwards with the force of his start, knocking over Stas and hugging the arm to his chest like it might ward off the revenant that was its former owner.

“Oh good Lord!” the sergeant exclaimed for the second time that day. The apparently-not-quite-dead man groaned painfully once more, before his eyes rolled shut again. The stump of his arm twitched like he meant to reach out and his breathing was ragged and shallow, but at least it was noticeable by now.

“Didn’t you think to check for a pulse?” their sergeant yelled, crossing himself reflexively. Kolya ignored him in favor of jolting into action, seeing to the man’s wounds as best he could with his depleted medical kit.

“How is this even possible?” Alyosha asked, mechanically handing Kolya whatever he asked for. “That’s got to be hundreds of meters.”

“It’s a miracle!” the sergeant whispered reverently. Their undead man groaned lowly, his brows furrowing in confusion as if he was wondering the same thing. His eyes would flutter every now and then, but never seemed to be able to focus. Alyosha wondered whether he could even understand them.

When he had done all he could by way of tending to the man’s injuries, Kolya stripped out of his heavy coat and draped it over the prone form on the snowy ground.

“We need to make some kind of gurney.” He muttered, looking around in calculation. There were no trees that they could use though, only some rickety bushes, barely enough to make a fire.

“Why bother? He’s not gonna make it.” Stas muttered quietly, but not without sympathy. The man groaned again, low and pained, a sickly wheezing sound rattling through his lungs in the process. Kolya sent his comrade a glare.

“He’s made it this far. We have to do what we can.”  He argued, crossing his arms in front of his chest, already shivering in the cold. The sergeant nodded thoughtfully, looking back the way they’d come with his lips pursed in thought.

“You think you can hold out here until tomorrow?” he asked.

“You want to go back to camp?” Alyosha asked by way of an answer. If two of them stayed here with the man, they could make it through the night. It would be far from pleasant, but it was doable. They’d been through worse. If the other two hurried, they could be back by morning. The sergeant nodded.

“He and I,” he pointed at Stas, “go back and report, then return with transportation and supplies. Even if he dies in the meantime, it’ll still be easier to transport the body that way.”

“He won’t die.” Kolya declared stubbornly, shivering in the icy wind. Sergeant Yevgeniy Igorovich gave him a long look, then turned abruptly and waved at Stas to follow.

“We’ll hurry.” He promised. “See that you’re all three still here when we get back.”

Kolya looked on grimly until the two were out of sight, then dropped to one knee next to the man.

“Don’t you dare die on me, you hear?”  

The man gave a pitiful wheeze and his eyes squeezed shut a moment. He hadn’t managed to utter a single word so far, making Alyosha wonder whether maybe Stas was right, whether they’d be holding a vigil by the end of the night. Either way, this was all the answer they were likely to get.

“Kolya,” Alyosha said softly, “What about this?” He held out the severed arm. The sad thing was that this wasn’t even the most macabre situation they’d been in. They’d passed the point of utter absurdity sometime in ’42, he thought. Kolya frowned at the arm, then at him, and lastly down at the man it once belonged to.

“So does that mean it can’t be put back on?” Alyosha asked, fearing he already knew the answer. Kolya shook his head in dismay.

“No, look the fingers are already turning black. Besides, the tearing was far too messy. He’ll be lucky not to lose the rest of that arm as well.”

Alyosha nodded sadly, looking down at the limb. The fingertips were indeed already turning black under the blue. He didn’t even want to look too closely at the end where it had come off; he’d seen enough of ripped flesh and splintered bones during this war already. Kolya frowned again, in deep thought.

“I think I can use the sleeve to help me stabilize the shoulder.”

“And the rest?”

Kolya shrugged, and that was that.

* * *

Kolya and Alyosha spent the night huddled together underneath the latter’s coat, shivering in the bitter cold. Their mystery man slipped in and out of his state of half-consciousness, groaning every so often, but he stayed alive without any major complications.

Like promised, Sergeant Petrov returned with a small outfit of men. He’d even managed to procure a sled, most likely from one of the farms they’d passed in the last days. Alyosha vowed he would make sure that the sled got back to where it came from. For now, he was thankful there was enough space for him and Kolya to curl up next to their half-dead charge, sharing their meagre body heat during the trip back to camp. He must have dozed off, because next thing he knew the tents of the stationary field hospital came into view and he could hear the sounds of people bustling about. A small crowd was already waiting for their return, nurses and doctors as well as rank and file having gathered in front of the main tent. Kolya was already scrambling off the sled before it even stopped, saluting one of the senior doctors before starting to rattle off a report. The older man looked over the man laid out on the sled, nodding along.

“Alright Novakov, you go and get a bite of something warm to eat and some rest. We’ll take it from here.”

“Doctor Rostov!” Kolya began protesting immediately, to absolutely no one’s actual surprise, “With all due respect I can’t just abandon him now. He’s my patient!”

Doctor Rostov, who unlike Kolya was quite a tall man, exchanged a long-suffering look with another of the higher-ranking officers over Kolya’s head, then sighed in mock exasperation. He fixed Kolya’s vehement pout with a hard stare.

“Take a sip of tea at least, there’s some freshly brewed in the officer’s mess. Then wash up and come back here. Hurry.”

Kolya sprang to attention, hurrying off in that distinctive hoppy gait he had. Medics and nurses were already attending to the mystery man, carefully pulling him onto a stretcher. He groaned lowly. Doctor Rostov oversaw it with pinched eyebrows, hands clasped behind his back. He turned to Alyosha, Stas and their sergeant.

“Will you at least rest of I order you to, or are you as pigheaded as him?”

The three men exchanged a look. Sergeant Petrov looked tired, dark circles under his eyes as if he hadn’t slept at all the previous night – which he probably hadn’t. Stas didn’t look much better, but he’d always been able to function on less sleep.

“I have matters to attend to.” The sergeant said regretfully. “I’ll come find you later, if it’s alright with you, Doctor.”

“I’d like to wait.” Alyosha said timidly, looking down at his boots. He’d found the man; sat by his side for a whole night. He felt strangely responsible, as if by leaving now he would doom the man after all. Stas must have nodded next to him, because Doctor Rostov sighed again, though it was indulgent.

“I suppose you can rest while waiting. There are two free cots in the back, on the left.”

The cots would be free because their previous inhabitants had died during the night, but that didn’t need spelling out. The two soldiers nodded gratefully and followed the doctor through the tent flaps where it was at least a bit warmer. In the distance Alyosha could already see Kolya returning, a piece of bread between his teeth as he ran back towards them, hopping like a bunny rabbit.

“That man really does have a ridiculous run.” Stas remarked through a small yawn.

* * *

 

Not remembering falling asleep, Alyosha shot up at the sound of angry yelling a few paces away. Not the pained howling of a wounded soldier, or the sobbing cries of a dying one – he was all too familiar with these sounds and if he could pick, he would like a quick death, something too fast to comprehend or feel like stepping on a mine. He’d seen and heard too much of the agony of dying slowly in this war.

“No! NO! Absolutely not! I won’t allow it!” he heard Kolya shout so loudly it made him wince.

“Nikolai Konstantinovich Novakov,” Doctor Rostov began with the tone of a man whose patience was worn thin beyond reason, “I don’t know what your grief with Doctor Ivchenko is, but what I do know is that this man is in agonizing pain and we are out of anesthetics. Ivchenko can help, and I intend to let him. So, unless you have an urgent wish to be punished for insubordination I suggest you step aside and let me do my job or I will have you physically removed from this tent, understood?”

Kolya looked like he might argue again, but a look at their mystery man writhing in his own blood on the operating table made him shut his mouth again reluctantly.

“I don’t trust Ivchenko, he’s creepy. He’s bad news, I just know it! He…” Kolya struggled for words to properly explain himself, coming up short and throwing his bloodied hands up in frustration. Mystery man whimpered on the table beneath the two doctors and Kolya put a calming hand on his chest, very carefully so as to not aggravate his extensive injuries and cause him even more pain. He deflated visibly, deferring to his superior unwillingly.

“I don’t like it.” He muttered unhappily.

“You don’t have to like it.” Doctor Rostov declared coolly.

* * *

 “I’m going out to take care of Mama’s grave, alright?” Tatiana said, dropping a small affectionate kiss on her father’s fine white hair. “Lunch is in the oven. I’m meeting Aunt Anneliese and Sonja and Julie after and I don’t know when I’ll be back; you know how we get. You’ll be alright, won’t you Papa?”

Novakov senior laughed fondly. “I may be old, but I can still take care of myself, my darling girl, just like I do whenever you’re not around. Besides, I won’t be alone.” He added with a nod towards James. Most of the morning had been whiled away with recounting how the old Doctor and his fellow soldiers had found their mysterious charge and James had gathered enough to know that even had his head not been tampered with in the decades between then and now he would never remember more of it than the odd flashes of cold and red blood on white snow.

He wrote it all down, too. Every last detail went into his journals and Saitchik, _Kolya, Nikolai Novakov_ was very patient, too. He was unreasonably lucky not only to have found the man alive, but also still sharp and with his memories carefully intact. He was barely half a year younger than Steve after all, with the notable exception of course that he’d had no ice or serum treatment, but had lived out every single of his over ninety years in full. Right now the old man is smiling fondly at his daughter (the youngest of five, three daughters and two sons, and James can tell she’s her father’s favorite, though none of his children have ever lacked for love), bidding her good-bye. When she’s out the door, Kolya turns back to him and his notebook, eyes a little dewy like they seem to have been since their arrival the previous night.

“I didn’t think I’d ever see you again, my friend,” and there it is again, that word. It echoes in the back of his mind like a siren, _I’m not gonna fight you – you’re my friend_ ricochets through his skull, chased by one focused reactive thought that is just _mission_. But he’s in control now; in fact he came halfway around the world because he’s in control now, and if he has a mission left it’s one he set himself and it serves no one but him. So he pushes it down, holds those reflexes under the surface until they fucking drown and listens to an old man he barely remembers reminiscing about how telling his children the story of his friend from the war who vanished to help keep him alive. Considering the times even that had to have been dangerous, with Hydra’s ears everywhere and a vested interest in keeping their asset a ghost story.

“Your wife didn’t mind?” James interjected for the first time again in several minutes. Kolya smiles sadly like he does whenever his late wife is mentioned.

“Not a bit. She knew you, too. Remembered you. Fondly, too.”

“We knew each other?”

“Briefly.” The other man tapped his knee, tutting thoughtfully. “Ah. But we’re not at that part of the story yet.”

* * *

 

1944 gave way to 1945 in a dreary succession of uniformly cold and boring days. Their mystery man pulled through, much to the astonishment of many if not most inhabitants of the comparatively small field hospital. Inquiries to all local resistance groups revealed that none of them were missing any members that were unaccounted for, and since the man had had no other form of identification it was down to waiting for him to wake, then speak.

Wake he did, and just in time for Christmas and a commissar to be sent to handle the paperwork. Said commissar, a man called Kuryakin, soon came up short when all he could mark in his report was that the unknown man did not seem able to communicate in any of the languages available in the whole camp (surprisingly many) and was therefore stuck with the designated number 17 and to be left where he was, seeing as the Soviet Union had more important things to concern itself with.

“Like winning a damn war!” The commissar concluded what had quickly become a shouting match between himself and Doctor Rostov. The doctor, usually a man of level temperament, looked like he was about to strangle the commissar with his bare hands.

“Listen here, you snotty little pen pusher! –“

“Supplies!” Sergeant Petrov butted in before it could come to actual blows; by some lucky chance he had only just arrived and practically burst into the tent after hearing the last of the angry shouting. Both men looked at him with expressions somewhere between disbelief and disdain. Sergeant Petrov swallowed uneasily, but stood his ground.

“We’ve been following the 21st Army around for weeks now and we’ve been struggling to meet demands even before that assignment. Men are dying needlessly every day because we lack all manner of supplies to properly care for our wounded.” The commissar’s mouth tightened and Petrov seemed to lose steam for a moment. “We need supplies, by whichever way, and it’s not helpful to leave us with another wounded man we do not have the capacity to treat properly just because you cannot be bothered to…”

“To what, sergeant?” Commissar Kuryakin interrupted with a dangerous edge to his voice. Petrov wrung his hat between his hands, half-regretting his courage now.

“Forgive me comrade, but my concern is for these men out there, and those that will surely join them as soon as the next big offensive starts. They are each single one someone’s son. You have a son, do you not, comrade?”

The commissar softened instantly, all anger drowning out of him to be replaced with a deep yearning. He absently fidgeted with the wristband of his watch.

“I’ll see what I can do.” He promised and gathered up his things, leaving with a nod.

“I never thought your propensity for gossip would amount to anything useful. I stand corrected.” Rostov admitted somewhat sourly after Kuryakin was sure to be out of earshot.

* * *

 

They moved behind the army through Silesia. Their unit was combined with the next one to the north; that made things better. More tents, more cots, more trained medical personnel, the flow of wounded concentrated instead of arbitrarily shipping them off to whichever field hospital they thought was nearest. Seventeen still had not uttered a single word, but was steadily getting better otherwise. By mid-January he was able to get up and walk a few steps, mainly by virtue of having broken many bones but none of those in his legs. By the end of that week he could make it to the front of the tent and back with only minimal swaying.

Since he didn’t seem to favor any language over another, Kolya stuck with what he knew, which was Russian. Exclusively. There’s this book he has, a children’s book really, that his young cousin gave him out of the pure goodness of her then ten-year-old heart before he shipped out to the front. Her name is Olesya and she’d only just gotten the book herself as it was a new release (but of course she’d devoured it within days and by the time she passed it on she’d read it so many times she must have it memorized word by word). So now, almost five years later Kolya is sitting beside Seventeen’s cot every evening that he can manage and reads the man about half a chapter, which the other seems to appreciate a lot despite the fact that he apparently cannot understand a word of it.

“And yet, this war has bred stranger things than this innocent pleasure, Yasha.” He says and Seventeen nods sagely, grin crooked on his bruised face, from which Kolya chooses to conclude that the name is acceptable because –

“- Because a person needs a proper name, even if it’s not theirs. Denying someone that is the first step in denying them their humanity altogether!” the old man declared passionately and James’ pen stuttered on the page because while he doesn’t exactly recall any of this something deep inside _remembers_ with a ferocity that leaves him short of breath for a moment.

“Yasha?” he manages, hating how it sounds gasping and affected because that’s something that could be read as weakness and if he shows weakness, if he performs below expectations he will be …alright stop it, _stop it_.

“Hmm, it just seemed to fit. I don’t know why, just felt right somehow.” Kolya shrugged, the action making him seem twenty-something again instead of well over ninety. Another beat of silence and then he grins.

“And I was right, wasn’t I? In a way – because Yasha is short for Yakov, which is Russian for Jacob, which is in English another version of …”

“James, yes.”

Kolya laughed, slapping his thigh with unadulterated mirth, so hard that it rattled his artificial leg audibly.

“And that’s your real name. James.” Kolya concluded, tongue tripping a bit on the foreign sounds of English.

“It is.” James confirmed, feeling an odd warmth spreading through him. It was getting late, both of them noticeably tiring even through their mutual excitement. Besides, if Tatiana comes back and sees this, he has a feeling she might bite his head off. Figuratively at least.

As if on cue, the lock in the front door clicked and not a moment later Tatiana called out that she had brought dinner. Apparently Aunt Anneliese was famous for her potato casserole.

All through February, the Soviet troops were engaged in an advance onto German territory. The fighting was tough, resistance fierce, response fiercer more often than not. Someone in the higher ranks of command had decided in their infinite wisdom that they were now to accompany the 6th Army instead of the 21st and thus they were moved further north. Their current patients were also split up according to the severity of their wounds. At the very least, it freed up a few beds as some men who were unlikely to recover enough to be in fighting shape were sent home. The barrage of shelling was distant enough most of the time, but almost constant to make up for that small comfort. Since Kolya was a medic he was out were the fighting happened most of the time, and since the other three were reasonably healthy soldiers they were called to the front line, too. Needless to say, no one really saw all that much of each other until the end of the month. The greatest surprise was probably that they were all still alive by then, and even relatively unharmed. Stas had caught a bullet in the arm, but it was only a flesh wound and healed well while Sergeant Petrov had twisted his ankle after stumbling on the muddy ground, but since this had prevented him from catching a sniper’s bullet with his face he thanked God and accepted his temporary limp with comparative serenity. _(‘I thank our good Lord for making me fall on my ass in the mud and break my foot instead of having my head shot off by a damn Nazi.’ – ‘It’s not broken.’ – ‘It feels broken. I feel broken.’ – ‘You’d make a horrible martyr.’)_

It was around a week into March when the fighting slowed enough for the group to meet up again in some measure of peace.

“So, he’s looking well.” Stas nodded towards Yasha, who was by now almost entirely without bandages. Also the swelling and bruising had gone down and he was getting some color in his cheeks again. “Quite a pretty one, too, isn’t he?”

“You’d know-“ The Sergeant mumbled, cursing under his breath as he drew a bad card in their impromptu game. Cards didn’t require that much in the way of language skills.  

“Thanks.” Yasha said and plucked a card from where he had stuck them into the edge of the somewhat rickety table.

“You’re welcome pretty boy … Wait – What???”

Yasha repeated his previous statement with some difficulty, in a somewhat abominable accent, and not lacking in minor mistakes, but they got it. “So – thanks.” He reiterated, looked smugly upon the stunned congregation, took a moment to wink conspirationally at one of the nurses, and then went back to peer at his cards as if nothing remarkable had happened.

“You understand us now, do you?” Sergeant Petrov concluded laconically. Yasha shrugged.

“A bit. Little bit. Little bit more each day.”

“How???”

At this, he shrugged again, stalling while he carefully arranged the foreign sounds in his mouth so as not to trip over them quite as much.

“Svetlana helped.” He nodded towards the nurse, who was by now busy changing the bandages on some poor bastard’s shredded legs. She took a moment to wave in acknowledgement.

“Petya and Vanya helped.” Yasha continued, pointing the two cots adjacent to his, even though their occupants were fast asleep at the moment. He retrieved Kolya’s book from beneath his pillow, lightly tracing the title letters. _The Sorcerer of the Emerald City._

“This help most.”

The group spent a moment picking their jaws back up off the ground.

“Huh…”

“Well, alright. …Devious little shit.”

“You accent is actually painful though, you know?”

“Shut up Stas, he almost died and it’s only been a few weeks.”

“Thanks, Kolya.”

“Call me Saitchik.”

Yasha computed this for a moment that looked to be filled with utter confusion.

“What…”

“Bunny. It means bunny.” Alyosha quickly butted in, throwing down a winning card in the same breath to a round of groaning.  Yasha did not look any less befuddled.

“Bunny?” he scrunched up his nose and his shoulder moved as if to result in some gesture to manifest his befuddlement, which only grew when he once more remembered that arm was gone. At this, he frowned. Alyosha laughed lightly.

“You will see why when he runs.”

Kolya made a sound of protest amid the low chuckling, then gathered up the cards and shuffled them for the next round.

“Yasha,” Kolya started again a few moments later when they were well into the game, “Do you remember anything?”

The other man looked around the tent in which he’d spent most of his time since he’d been found, certainly the majority of it that he’d been conscious. He shook his head sadly.

“…No. Nothing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> where do I start?  
> -the military campaign referenced is an actual thing that happened, but besides that since I know nothing of actual Red Army inner workings don't take anything said about that seriously pls; as far as I'm concerned they pretty much have to make up like 80-90% of shit as they go along  
> -you might remember the book reference from like ten chapters ago. The seeds planted then have finally come to fruition. I am proud.  
> -Agent Carter season 1 reference ayeeeeee  
> -I borrowed a name from the movie The Man From U.N.C.L.E., so that movie and the MCU are now taking place in the same universe because why not  
> \- me throughout this chapter: 'do NOT go off on tangents about your minor characters' back stories they are not relevant to the text in SUCH DETAIL'  
> \- comment with the name of your favorite Russian character appearing in this chapter  
> or anything else you'd like to say  
> but mainly that


	37. Es liegt eine Insel im Roten Meer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm baaaaaaack!  
> Wow, it took waaaay longer than I anticipated, planned, or wanted, but finally I'm back with a new chapter. I can't promise you any speedy updates, since I've just moved and started a new job in a different city, but I have hope that it'll be less than half a year before the next update. Thank you all so much for sticking with my little story, and a heartfelt welcome to all newcomers :D The bookmarks, kudos, and comments I received in the meantime are something I truly treasure and it made me so happy to see them. Now, without much further ado, Chapter 37!

_Voll von Freunden war mir die Welt,_  
_Als noch mein Leben licht war;_  
_Nun, da der Nebel fällt,_  
_Ist keiner mehr sichtbar._

 _Wahrlich, keiner ist weise,_  
_Der nicht das Dunkel kennt,_  
_Das unentrinnbar und leise_  
_Von allen ihn trennt._

_Hermann Hesse – Im Nebel_

* * *

The Wehrmacht soldiers fought on even though their battle was a losing one. And then, beside the regular troops there were reserves of mostly old men and children attempting to hold the towns. The levels of resistance varied wildly, some fighting to the death, determined to pull as many enemy soldiers down with them, some throwing away their weapons after putting up a half-hearted fight. Sergeant Petrov, who had been promoted to Lieutenant after the February campaign, told them of a squadron of soldiers who had waited with guns at the ready, only to shoot their commanding officer and surrender as soon as the Soviet soldiers came into view. In some places the Red Army were welcomed as liberators, in others they were resisted until the defenders’ last breath, and in most places, the reactions were anywhere between those poles. The only thing that seemed to still unite the Germans was apprehension.

 “This is pointless!” Stas groaned and flopped down right there on the ground as soon as they had made it back to camp, not caring how muddy it was. “Just surrender. I want to go home. Ugh!”

“Even if they all were to surrender there’ll likely be an occupation. Besides, when the fighting’s done, that’s when the bureaucracy starts rolling in again.” Lt. Petrov remarked sympathetically to his subordinate, who was currently imitating a starfish judging by the way he’d sprawled out his limbs over the muddy ground.

“I don’t care,” Stas muttered in reply, “I’ve slept maybe seven hours this week. I’ve been fighting damn Nazis for six years. I’m tired. I’m so tired.” He whined, his eyes screwing shut dramatically.

“So tired…” he reiterated softly.

“Just don’t come crying to me when you get a cold from lying in the mud.” Petrov muttered and moved to nudge the other man’s side with the toe of his boot. Just as he was about to, a massive noise sounded, like the deep dark growls and crashes of a thunderstorm released all at once. The shockwave hit just an instant afterwards, throwing him down with force, as it did most in the vicinity. It took a moment for the ringing in his ears to subside enough for his thoughts to sound through, by which time the moment of initial shock was almost over for most.

“Are we being attacked?” Stas asked in a tone that was more resigned than disoriented or even panicked. Petrov gave him a look to the effect of ‘What do you fucking think?’ and picked himself off the ground.

The main tent was still intact, thank goodness – not even singed, just a bit muddier on the bottom than it had been before. That was good; meant the wounded likely weren’t harmed any more than they were before. Already nurses and doctors spilled forth from within. It appeared the shell had hit a good thirty or forty metres away, at the outskirts of the camp where the officer’s mess (a tent slightly taller than the ones meant for sleeping, but otherwise not exactly much roomier) was located. Close to it, Kolya was just struggling to his feet, a shocked expression on his face. At this point, less than a minute had passed since the explosion though time seemed to stretch out infinitely.

“Alyosha is… I was just going to get him for a… for…” Kolya explained helplessly, pointing at the charred remains of the officer’s mess, or rather the crater where it used to stand. Kolya started towards it in the same moment Petrov and Dr Rostov both yelled for him not to. Basically simultaneously, a small round object whistled through the air, landing at Kolya’s feet with a trail of sparks. He stared down at it dumbly while the yelling continued, Stas falling into the frenzied chorus with a panicked ‘Grenade!’. Kolya felt a sharp tug on his arm just heartbeats before the second explosion hit. He didn’t feel the pain until much later, when Dr Rostov was sawing his ruined leg off.

“I was lucky, considering.” Saitchik mused, tapping the end of his cane against the smooth plastic of his prosthetic leg where he had unstrapped it for the time being. It was fairly new, very modern – then again he’d spent most of his life with an artificial limb constructed from metal, and a much cruder design. The first few years, he’d only had a wooden peg.

“Like a pirate!” he was able to grin about it now, at least. “Ah well, it was better than the crutches.”

“Who pulled you out of the way?” James asked, looking up from the sketch he’d made alongside the retelling, reconstructing the place and everyone’s locations from the other man’s words and his own sketchy memories. Saitchik turned his surprised gaze on him.

“You did.”

James stopped short, pencil stuttering across the page. “Me?”

“You saved my life. Thanks to you, that grenade only blew my leg off. I was in shock. I would have stayed there, looking down at it like an idiot until it blew my face off.” His old body shook with the memory, and James was certain that it was still as fresh in his mind as if it had only just happened.

“Oh.” He replied in his usual eloquent way. Saitchik seemed to have gathered himself and broke out into a wide smile.

“Yes, you. Without you I wouldn’t be sitting here now. I’d never have met my Bettina, we’d never have had our beloved children, not to mention our grandchildren. Or their children. Let’s see-“ he tapped his fingers on the armrest, moving his lips near silently as he counted off the younger generations of his family. “-and Tessie is only half a year old, so that’s 27 total, 28 if you count me in.”

James felt as if the air had been knocked clean out of him. There was a literal wall of pictures in the house, just the next room over, with framed photos that spanned seventy years of family history. Twenty-eight lives probably didn’t count much in the end, not considering how many lives he’d ended as Hydra’s asset, but for now he’d take it. He managed a smile as he got up to get more tea from the kitchen. After refilling both their cups, he sank back into the couch cushions and took up his notebook again.

“And then what?”

* * *

Mrs Wilson is a resolute woman with wise eyes and a warm, mischievous smile that her son obviously inherited. Mr Wilson was exactly what one would expect from an elderly gentleman who had worked hard all his life and was determined to enjoy his retirement now, in the midst of the family he loved. It was exactly the kind of warm and loving home-life you’d always yearned for growing up and now, sitting on the Wilsons’ back porch with a glass of wine and a piece of utterly delicious berry pie to celebrate the birthday you almost shared with Sam, you felt as though everything you’d dreamt of while you were a child had come true.

It was so utterly kind of Sam to invite you along, and of his family to have you. It was, without a doubt, the best birthday you had ever had (not even your real birthday, just the day you’d been found behind that dumpster as a newborn, so the actual date might as well have been that 22nd of September back in 1988).

In fact, Sam hadn’t so much invited you along as he had been waiting on your doorstep for you to get home from work that Tuesday, cajoling you into his car which he then proceeded to drive all the way to his parents’ house, where a small surprise party had been prepared for you. Somehow you’d held it together all through the early dinner (Sam’s sister was visiting with her little kids and husband), but now, as you watched Steve losing a truly ferocious game of frisbee against an eight-year-old and his six-year-old sister, the floodgates were just about ready to fully burst.

“Those better be tears of joy.” Sam observed, plopping down next to you with a beer in hand. You laughed and leaned into him, resting your head on his shoulder while you wiped at your eyes.

“You’re the actual best, you know that?” you said. He grinned, winking at you and clinking his bottle against your wine glass. Out on the lawn, Steve was being obliterated by the two little kids. He fell to the ground dramatically, clutching his side where the frisbee had barely grazed him, and Sam’s little niece and nephew made a show of trying to tug him back up. It was pretty adorable. And Sam’s sister and her husband were glad to have a moment to themselves, one could tell.  

“No really Sam, this is one of the sweetest things anyone’s ever done for me. Thank you.”

“Hey, what are friends for? Happy You-Didn’t-Die-In-A-Dumpster-Day!” he cheered and you snorted.

“Well, I mean, how many other people do you know who get birthday cards from retired nuns?”

“Nuns can retire? I thought the whole point of that was that it was a life-time deal!” you snorted again, endlessly amused by him.

“It is, it is. They retired from working at the orphanage, not from being nuns.”

“To be honest, I could have worked that out on my own,” Sam looked pensive for a moment, watching a flock of birds soar by overhead. “At least I’m sure I could have two or three beers ago.”

“At least I have some sort of idea. When Skye got into the system she was already a few months old and nobody could really tell when she was born, or where.” You stopped yourself, your previously joyful mood starting to dissipate again. Somehow the mixed emotions you’ve acquired about what at least formally counts as your birthday have become even more muddled now. You think of this day all the years before, your childhood and the seemingly endless carousel of orphanage and foster homes, then college and your early work life when you didn’t really celebrate because you’d had no one to celebrate with. You think of that fateful evening when you, freshly graduated and only just getting into the swing of business and all alone in the big city, had made your way to a seedy bar up in Hell’s Kitchen that somehow ended with you raising hell with two law school graduates who were in the same boat as you, only just getting started with their careers by interning in a big law firm downtown. That ranks among the top birthday experiences for sure. Your thoughts slip to the following years, to settling into the life you’re making for yourself, advancing in your job. Your cheating bastard of an ex had never seen the point of putting much effort into celebrating with you, and that was among all the other big little things. Looking back now you cannot for the life of you tell what you ever saw in him. The only truly gratifying thing had been the outpouring of support from nearly everyone you knew when you’d finally ended it. It was like The People vs Shitbag and they were going for the highest possible sentence, no deals, no appeals, no probation. Last thing you heard he’d moved to Montana or Nebraska or something. You hoped he was miserable. You hoped he’d freeze all his toes off.

So overall, if one were to draw up a scale and measure the parameters, this today would doubtlessly have to count as the best damn birthday of your life so far, and it _is_ , too, and yet you can’t fully enjoy it because half the people you love aren’t here with you. And even buzzed as he is by now, Sam still picks up on it. It’s like he has a sixth sense that makes him see right through the fronts people put up.

“So, who else writes you cards instead of being here?” he asks, and you turn to rummage through the purse at your feet to show him the one that loudly proclaims ‘Live long and prosper!’, which is from Skye and into which she actually tucked four handwritten pages (double-sided) and a flash drive you haven’t looked into yet. You got one from James, too. On it, there’s a drawing of your living room in loose strokes, with the cat curled up on the couch. In it, there’s a folded map of the world and the direction to mark every place you want to see. You’d mentioned, during one of your lazy evenings watching some sort of documentary, that you had never really travelled the world. _Let us go there, you and I (if you want to, that is)._ Just re-reading it now had you in tears again, which prompted Sam to put his arm around your shoulders for comfort. Overwhelmed, you closed the card, revealing the postscript on the back. _PS. And tell Steve that he owes me 3 $ because aliens ARE real._

You put the cards away again and took a moment to calm down, Sam’s quiet, reassuring presence helping tremendously. Sam was good with that, with reading people and analyzing how they needed to be handled. He also had a talent for pulling them out of their heads (probably why he was so successful and popular at the VA). Like right now he was asking you about work, as you had been whining about it on and off over the past week or so.

“No really, I love nothing more than arguing with suppliers for days on end.” You were just unloading onto him. “It’s just so… you know how we mainly do research and development, but we also have to do production to generate some revenue, which is basically what guarantees our continued existence. So we do high-end, order-by-order production. You don’t need a whole lot of materials for that, or the research, so we can only buy in small quantities. It’s all very expensive for reasons I don’t even want to think about and of course, it isn’t allowed to be. In fact, I am already looking forward to my annual scolding e-mail from Mr Pyke.” Sam was looking very (unduly) amused now and his brother-in-law, who managed supply chains for some large firm whose name you could not recall, made a noise of long-suffering agreement in the background.

“And Mr Pyke is…?”

“Mr Pyke is head of accounting at Stark Industries and if you spend too much you will get a very long, very displeased e-mail. For someone who is also in charge of purchasing, that man really does not want to spend money. It’s either the worst characteristic for that job or the best. Point is, I’m annoyed and I am going to be even more annoyed when my annual ‘you spend too much and don’t earn enough’ report comes in.”

“Sounds like someone who, in their own best interest, should really not work for Tony Stark.”

You only groaned in response and let yourself fall back against the warm wood of the patio, enjoying the view of the migrating swarms of birds up above.

“Okay, I get it – enough work talk.” Sam concluded and flopped down next to you. The flight of the birds was mesmerizing, like a huge organism that shifted and flowed with a single mind.

“Those are starlings, I think.” Sam murmured softly after a few minutes of content silence on your part. You gave an interested hum, which Sam took as his cue to continue. “Did you know that they only need to keep track of the seven closest birds to make these patterns?”

“I always wondered how they manage not to get in each other’s way.” You murmured.

“Is my brother giving you his ten best bird facts? You know he used to do bird watching when he was a boy.” Sam’s sister, Sarah, called over gleefully, which caused you to giggle and him to rub both hands over his face in annoyance.

“Stop saying these things; I’ve just convinced my new friends here that I’m cool.” He whined, at which his sister gave hearty laugh.

“You are a nerd and you have always been a nerd, as I’m sure they’ve noticed by now.” She concluded.

“Whatever, birds _are_ cool.” Sam muttered, emptying the last swig from his bottle. You felt a timid tug at your sleeve and looked up to find Sam’s little niece by your side, looking up at you with big brown eyes.

“Oh hey, what is it sweetie?”

“Steve says you used to play baseball.” She started earnestly, absently fidgeting with one of her adorable little braids.

“Yeah, I did. I played Little League. Do you like baseball?”

She nodded, rocking back on her bare feet. She seemed a bit shy now, quickly scuttling over to your other side where Sam had sat back up, where she scrambled up on her uncle’s lap and grasped onto his much larger hand with her two little pudgy ones.

“Have you ever played yourself?” you continued in what you hoped was an encouraging manner.

“A few times with Daddy, but he isn’t very good.” She scrunched up her nose and dropped her voice to a conspirational whisper. “Daddy likes ice hockey better.” She confided. Sam was fighting to keep a straight face at this point, but you ignored him.

“D’you wanna play with me? I could show you a few tricks.” You replied just as conspirationally. Her little face lit up like fireworks and she beamed up at you. “Yes! Yesyesyes please!”

Somehow all the necessary equipment was procured and somehow a rudimentary team had assembled around you and little Jody. You played until the onset of darkness by which point the kids were all but falling asleep standing up. Sarah and her husband collected their kids and excused themselves, and shortly after the senior Wilsons did the same, leaving only you, Sam, and Steve on the porch.

“Best birthday ever!” you declared, supressing a yawn as you snuggled further into the blankets that had been brought out. Beside you, Sam disentangled one hand from his own blanket cocoon and high-fived Steve.

* * *

It was the lack of singing in the evenings that finally drove the point home that Alyosha was gone. Before the war, he’d been a student at the conservatory in Leningrad. His voice was a gift, at once clear and smooth, with a warm timbre. No one could do Puccini justice like him, his teachers had agreed, but Alyosha’s real passion had been folk songs. He’d collected them regardless of language or meaning and shared his repertoire freely. What was left was silence. They didn’t have too much time to dwell on it, seeing as the Soviet troops were still advancing towards Berlin, and there were not enough resources to send a single man back home, even if he’d lost a leg. Kolya spent a few days in a feverish haze and descended into blithe apathy as soon as his mind cleared. But war has no care for the suffering of individuals and raged on around them.

In their rag-tag little camp, comprised of remnants and drifters, they were mostly left alone by higher-ups. So it came as some sort of surprise when a car arrived the day after they’d set up a good way east-north-east of Berlin in mid-April. From the car, an officer emerged who outranked them all and whose uniform was completely unblemished. He seemed somewhat put out at not being greeted by more than suspicious stares, but quickly recovered and made his way to the half-open tent that now served as wardroom.

“Who’s on charge here?” He barked. Petrov got up and introduced himself, and Dr Rostov did the same. The officer game his name as Polyakov and sneered.

“I am looking for 8th company.” He declared importantly. Lt. Petrov regarded him coolly.

“Congratulations, you’ve found them.” He retorted with a sweeping gesture over Stas and absolutely no one beside him. The officer’s chin and eyebrows went in opposite directions so fast and far it was comical.

“That is just one man!” he exclaimed in the tone of a person clearly expecting to be the victim of a prank.

“If you had come last month I would’ve still had two.” Petrov went on in as if in pleasant conversation.

“I was actually re-assigned from 14th company, if that helps.” Stas remarked, knowing full well it didn’t.

“14th was wiped out completely more than a year ago.”

“And every day I thank my lucky stars that I get to continue to serve our beloved Soviet Union in this great struggle against the evil of fascism.” Stas replied drily.

“How may we help you, Colonel Polyakov?” Petrov interrupted. Polyakov reigned in his rising hackles.

“I have order to replenish the ranks of the 478th Rifle Division. We have intelligence that the Germans are gathering for a last offence nearby, which is ridiculous since Berlin is almost fully ours, but if these were reasonable people none of us would be here.”

“I see,” Petrov replied carefully. “I agree with you, but I must urge you to consider that if you reassign me and my man here there’ll be no one left to guard our wounded and those who care for them here. We’ve been under constant attack same as any fighting companies.” Rostov nodded along.

“Besides, will two people really make that much of a difference? No matter how that battle goes, you’ll have need of medical care afterwards.”

“Are you trying to talk me into disobeying a direct order, Lieutenant?” Polyakov asked sharply, looking exceedingly annoyed.

“No, not at all. I’m merely stating that if you leave this field hospital defenceless and open to attack, it might not be there anymore when you need it. Consider that we are deep in enemy territory. Our situation is precarious at best, even if the Germans were to surrender tomorrow. All I’m saying is that me and Private Malenko here would be far more useful remaining here. That was also Major Gruzinski’s reasoning when he assigned us here after the rest of our unit  was killed.”

There was a tense beat of silence during which a vein on Colonel Polyakov’s forehead started ticking dangerously. He regarded them with deadly silence while his face grew darker and darker until he looked like a kettle on the verge of boiling over. Then, he started screaming.

“I don’t care! I know what’s being said about you lot here; you’re nothing but subversives and degenerates, spared only as long as your usefulness still exceeds your faults! Your days of weaselling around regulations are done, Comrade Petrov. I have my orders, and I obey them. So I don’t care whether there’s two or twenty of you, I don’t care whether your words have impressed Major Gruzinki or even Marshall Zhukov himself; you’re going to Finow! In fact, you’ll be coming with me right now! Pack your gear! You have ten minutes!”

“Colonel Polyakov, I really…”

“Five minutes!” he roared. Lt. Petrov met his gaze evenly, and seeing that the other man would not be moved, he straightened and resigned himself. Stas followed him reluctantly, muttering that he’d ‘survived Stalingrad for the sake of fuck’ and how this was ‘a great big barrel of goat shit’.

* * *

They never came back from that battlefield. Kolya got worse seemingly in the same measure that Yasha improved. Even though physically he healed well, it seemed that mentally he was descending into a dark and lonely place. Not even the victory celebrations after the German surrender on May 8th could pull him out of it. If possible, it only gnawed away more at him, sapping away his will to live steadily. At first, it didn’t help that he wasn’t allowed to return home. Apparently there was always someone more deserving or in greater need, always someone worthier. Their little camp was dissolved at the begin of the occupation, the wounded – Kolya and Yasha among them – reassigned to a big field hospital in the south of Berlin. There was a big lake within walking distance. Yasha tried tirelessly to make Kolya accompany him, to distract him from wallowing in his dark thoughts. In the beginning, Kolya just went along in order to escape the constant nagging that would ensue if he declined, hopping along miserably on his crutches. There was nothing for them to do really. No one had much use for two cripples, one of whom was still struggling with the language.

Somehow they killed the time all summer long, settling into an uneventful routine. By September Yasha was basically fluent in Russian, though still frustratingly void of any recollections of his life before his fall, and Kolya seemed to be on the mend. They even interacted a bit with the locals, after a good while of either side observing the other warily from as far away as possible. There was, for example a middle-aged widow who took a shine to the both of them specifically. Perhaps they reminded her of someone she’d known and lost.

Frau Weiland was her name and she supported herself by helping with the camp’s laundry. She lived alone in a small cottage on the way to the lake. As often as they’d stopped there on the way back, they’d even picked up some German, though the language barrier was still intimidating. It was towards the end of October, the last few truly warm days of the year. There had actually been work found for them at camp, so they hadn’t made it around to Frau Weiland’s little cottage for the last few days. She waved at them as soon as she saw them approaching from her garden, excitedly chatting away as she ushered them into a couple of rickety wooden folding chairs. After ensuring that they were all set, she motioned for them to stay put and vanished into the house.

“Did you get any of that?” Kolya asked. Yasha shrugged.

“I think she wants to show us something. Not sure. She speaks very fast.”

 Wordlessly, they settled into a few of the mundane tasks around the house and garden before the woman could return to object. Kolya picked up the sock she’d been darning until their arrival and Yasha picked up and filled the watering can to tend to the small vegetable garden. They’d only been at it for a couple of minutes when a noise that somehow managed to convey indignation, confusion and cautious disapproval all at once caught their attention. The source of it was a young woman, almost still a girl, at the garden’s low gate. She looked malnourished and pale, her clothes had seen better days, and her dark hair was mostly hidden beneath a washed-out cloth that was starting to come loose. Her grey-green eyes were full of distrust as she eyed them in their uniforms.

“Na ihr zwei seid ja’n Pärchen wie Max und Klärchen.” She muttered, more to herself than to them. Kolya gave Yasha a blank look, not having understood a word. Yasha shrugged, the sentence too colloquial for him to be able to decipher it’s meaning. The girl looked doubtful and seemed torn between trying to make herself understood, just pushing through without sparing another glance at them, and turning on her heels.

“Gute …uh, gute Tag …Fräulein?” Kolya chanced, smiling shyly. With somewhat more grammatical coherence, Yasha starts explaining that they’re just visiting to help the older lady that lives here, but before he can really make himself understood Frau Weiland re-emerges from her little house, promptly dropping the basket she’d been carrying. As fast as lightning, the girl has pushed open the gate, run between the two men and is flying into the older woman’s arms with a sob. They start talking quietly among each other in rushed German, seemingly unable to let go.

“We should probably leave.” Kolya said quietly, setting aside the sock and grabbing his crutches. Yasha nodded but stayed rooted to the spot watching the two women cling to each other. They had to be family. They had to be. Kolya didn’t have much left in the way of family, and hadn’t heard from them in almost two years. A couple of aunts and cousins, his parents long dead and his only brother fallen at Kursk. Yasha didn’t know who or where his family was, or if they were even still alive, but suddenly he was filled with a deep longing that clenched his stomach and pressed the air out of his lungs. He swallowed hard and tore his gaze away.

“Yes, let’s go.”

* * *

 

“It took the old lady almost ten minutes to notice we’d gone, but she came running after us immediately. Luckily we hadn’t made it that far away yet.” Saitchik explained with a nod to his missing leg. “She insisted we come back so that she could introduce us to her niece.”

“Your future wife.” James remarked. Saitchik smiled softly.

“Yes, that was my Bettina.”

“I took you only about two weeks to fall hopelessly in love with her.” James reminisced. It was one of those diffuse memories that existed as shapeless facts in his brain, inaccessible until tickled forth. Saitchik’s eyes grew a bit dewy.

“I was, and I was very bad at hiding it. She wasn’t very impressed though. It took until much later the following year that she even deigned to give me the time of day. Of course, it was very difficult for women then. She was called all kinds of disgusting things simply for talking to me.”

“You must have convinced her that you were worth the hassle.” James said lightly, and Saitchik smiled wryly, absently twisting his wedding ring.

“You know, there were times I doubted that, when I thought it would be better if I left, but I couldn’t. she was the love of my life. If that isn’t worth fighting for, then what is?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> > Es liegt eine Insel im Roten Meer - literal. 'There is an island in the Red Sea'  
> actually the first line of a song from occupied post-war Berlin. Here's a link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZUE69N_xaxg  
> > The poem of the day are the two middle stanzas of Hermann Hesse's poem 'Im Nebel' (engl. 'In the Fog/Mist'). I found a translation online, but I didn't like it so I made my own:
> 
> Full of friends was my world   
> When my life was light still  
> Now that the fog descends  
> No one is longer visible
> 
> Truly, no one is wise  
> If he knows not the darkness  
> Which, inescapable and quiet,  
> From all things him separates
> 
> if you're interested here's a reading by the author himself: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cYNgf61iD9M  
> and here a recital by a contemporary German actor: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bx4Bd9riRSY
> 
> > Na ihr zwei seid ja’n Pärchen wie Max und Klärchen. - literal.: 'You two are a pair like Max and Claire', meaning two people who seem to fit together well in their individual strangeness, two people who maybe are a bit weird or odd but next to each other it feels right  
> and then Kolya is just trying to say 'good day, miss' but he isn't doing a very good job
> 
> Okay, that's it for notes. I'm looking forward to hearing your questions, theories, comments and other thoughts^^


End file.
